


you, a violent desire

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Couch Sex, Department of Mysteries, Depression, Dildos, Divorce, Draco Malfoy & Astoria Greengrass Friendship, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Fist Fights, Frottage, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Love Potion Abuse, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Minor Character Terminal Illness, Minor Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Violence, Open Relationships, POV Alternating, Past Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s), Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Riding, Switching, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, Unspeakables (Harry Potter), Veritaserum, Voyeurism, minor prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 47,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: The Amortentia was an accident—but only the first time.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 132
Kudos: 1261
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quicksilvermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid/gifts).



> Dear quicksilvermaid, I was so excited to read through your signup! There were so many exciting tropes and topics listed that I ended up trying to include quite a lot of them – I hope I’ve succeeded in doing your likes justice <3
> 
> Thanks to M for helping bounce ideas and shape the original story idea, as well as to S for betaing. Lastly, thank you so much to the mods for their continued patience and hard work! Title from 30 Seconds to Mars' "Dangerous Night".
> 
> Please see the A/N at the end of the story for a mildly spoilery description of the dubious consent tag if you would like more information!

Harry throws his textbook down in exasperation. “I still don't understand this bloody chapter,” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face and flicking his eyes toward the other man in the room—his study partner. “And I've made you stay late again too. Probably for nothing, since I'm going to fail the exam anyway at this point.”

“Oh, come off it,” says Trainee Four, his voice and face carefully disguised by the Identity-Masking Charms that shield all of their identities. The Unspeakables take anonymity almost frighteningly seriously, especially where Trainees are concerned. “You'll be fine if you stop whinging about it long enough to actually study.”

Harry huffs a sigh. He knows Four is right, even though he doesn't want to admit it, but nonetheless he picks up his book again. “Fine. Can you explain one more time?”

A while later, after they've long since lapsed into silence, Harry aims a small, tired smile at Four and says, “Thanks for this.”

“It's nothing,” Four responds automatically with a wave of his hand, but Harry shakes his head.

“No, really. You've been helping me out this whole time—much more than I've helped you, I'm sure. I swear I wouldn't be anywhere near passing the final exams without you.”

“Well,” says Four, then chuckles a bit. “I suppose you may be right about you being an unhelpful arse.”

Harry throws a balled up piece of scratch paper at him, playfully scowling even though he knows Four can't see his expression behind the charms. “Prick.”

Four laughs. Harry finds himself wondering what his _real_ laugh sounds like, and then he has to stop that thought in its tracks.

He doesn't even know if Four is attracted to men.

He doesn't even have any idea who Four is in the first place.

Still, as he looks over at the other man, lounging in the same deep blue Unspeakable Trainee robes Harry is wearing and somehow managing to seem almost elegant despite it being so late at night, Harry can't help the way his heart thumps unsteadily in his chest.

“I wish I could see your face,” he says quietly, in a moment of weakness.

Four is silent for a moment. “I’m not so sure about that,” he says eventually.

“What?” Harry asks, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Four says quickly. “And anyway, you’ll see soon enough, won't you? After we pass our exams?”

Harry wants to press but decides to let it go. “Assuming I _do_ pass,” he mutters instead, throwing a glare at his scribbled notes, and again Four laughs.

“You'll pass,” he says, reaching over to pat Harry's arm. The touch burns, and for once Harry is glad for the charms that obscure his own face—because that means Four can't see the sudden warmth in his cheeks.

Four pulls his hand away, but leaves it resting on the table, mere inches from Harry's own. 

It would be so, so easy to reach out and touch him. To take his hand. To give away his own feelings.

But he shouldn't. He has studying to do.

\--

The candle-light is low, flickering, casting ominous shadows on the walls of the dark chamber Harry’s standing in. He assumes he’ll grow used to the sight in the coming years, but for now, it still seems incredibly eerie, and he suppresses a shiver.

“Repeat after me,” the stern-sounding Unspeakable in front of him says. The Identity-Masking Charms shimmer over her face, distorting the very air in front of her, and it only adds to the eerieness of the moment.

A wisp of nervousness spins in Harry’s stomach, and he has to fight to squash it. He’s been toiling in this Trainee program for a grueling six months, has pushed through all of the tasks and trials and tribulations set for him and the other Trainees, and he’s not about to quit now.

This will help him get closure from the war, he thinks—it has to.

He spares a glance at the other Trainees next to him, four others in total. He hasn’t a clue to any of their identities—they aren’t allowed to know anything about each other until after the Oath has been taken. It promotes unity, the mentors say, but sometimes Harry thinks it simply feels dehumanizing. Every day for the last half year, he’s been referred to as a number instead of his name.

‘Unspeakable Trainee Number One’ sounds just a bit too close to ‘Undesirable Number One’, in his opinion. He’ll be glad to get rid of it. 

But first, the Oath.

“On my honor as an Unspeakable Trainee,” says the witch acting as the Head Unspeakable, clad in the traditional deep black robes of the department. She motions for them to repeat, and Harry does, noticing immediately the frantic nature of the air as it begins shivering around them. 

It’s the mark of a magically binding contract, he knows. The Unspeakable Oath isn’t an Unbreakable Vow, or at least there’s no death penalty. But no one has mentioned what exactly happens to those who break it, and Harry’s terribly sure he doesn’t want to find out.

“I swear that never will I reveal the contents of my work to those unauthorized, unless under penalty of law,” the witch continues, and Harry, in trance, repeats the words with the other Trainees.

“I will not reveal the identities of my colleagues,”

“ _I will not reveal the identities of my colleagues,_ ”

“Nor will I use information found in my work to commit any crime.”

“ _Nor will I use information found in my work to commit any crime._ ”

“These things I vow in order to be accepted into the position of Unspeakable, and from this day forward, I accept the title as my own.”

“…I accept the title as my own,” Harry finishes, and then he’s struck by a sudden pain in his head, letting out a grunt as the magic hits him, squeezing at his brain until he nearly screams.

The Trainee next to him knocks into him, and Harry shakily reaches out a hand to steady them, becoming dimly aware that it’s Trainee Four. Harry’s again grateful for him—his biggest ally and support through all of this—as even now, their heads screaming in pain, Trainee Four reaches out and steadies Harry in return.

And then all at once, the pain stops, and the Trainees are left gasping.

“You could’ve warned us,” Trainee Two says, voice surly. But halfway through her sentence, her voice begins to change—with a start, Harry realizes that the identity charms are slipping off, melting away like water down the drain.

“We used to warn people, but then they resisted…” the Head Unspeakable begins explaining drily, but as she continues talking Harry is far more distracted by the other Trainees, whose faces are slowly becoming clear. 

He shakes off the dazed feeling leftover from the pain of the Oath, turning as Trainee Four, whose arm he’s still clutching at, slowly is revealed—

Then the last wisps of the charm fade away, leaving Harry face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.

Shocked, he drops Malfoy’s arm—his _left_ arm at that—as if it’s burned him. “ _Malfoy_ ,” he hisses.

To his credit, Malfoy looks just as shocked and disgusted, if not more. “ _Potter_. Of fucking course.”

“That’s _Unspeakable_ Malfoy and Potter to you,” the Head Unspeakable interjects loudly before they can begin to row, and Harry tears his gaze away from Malfoy, embarrassed. “And you _will_ knock off whatever silly rivalry you have going on between you, or so help me, I will not think twice about kicking you out of this department!”

Harry, suitably chastised, shuts his mouth, and Malfoy does the same, thank fuck. Harry’s worked far too hard on getting this position for _Malfoy_ of all people to fuck it up. 

It’s a pity Trainee Four had to be him, truly. 

Harry had been looking forward to making a friend—and maybe something more.

But obviously not anymore.

“Now that I have all of your attention—I’m Unspeakable Adams. Pleasure,” says the Head Unspeakable in a voice that’s anything but pleasurable. “You all are dismissed for the weekend. Feel free to either leave or get acquainted with the department a bit, but _do not_ touch anything. And don’t forget that if you show up late for your first day of specialty rotations on Monday, you may not be able to enter the department. Now please, those of you who _don’t_ already know each other, introduce yourselves.”

Adams walks away, heels clicking on the black marble of the meeting chamber, and Harry attempts to rid himself of the tension paining his shoulders as he turns to say hello to the remaining Trainees. He doesn’t recognize any of the others, only catching fleeting blurs of names before all three of them are upon him, gazing at him in adoration and thanking him for being so brave in the war.

His stomach turns. “It was years ago,” he says, trying to shut them down as quickly and efficiently as possible. He hates this the most of all.

Off to the side, Malfoy glares at him snidely, and Harry glares back but refuses to let his temper get the better of him. It’s easy to notice the way the other Trainees have suddenly begun to ignore Malfoy—his family name was smeared through the mud so thoroughly after the war that it’s hard not to have heard of his involvement with Voldemort.

But it serves Malfoy right, doesn’t it? Bloody ex-Death Eater.

Harry finally shakes off the attention of the other Trainees, nearly wishing he could put the identity charms back on as he stalks away in frustration to begin exploring the department. All he wants is to just do his job, and his job right now is to continue with the specialty apprenticeship program until he earns the title of full Unspeakable.

But it seems that’s going to be a difficult task when his coworkers have turned out to be Malfoy and three others who can’t see past his fame. 

Bitterness rubs at him, clenching at his throat, and he swallows the strong medicine of it down. Just one more thing to go wrong in his life, he supposes—like failing at joining the Aurors, or neglecting to go back to Hogwarts, or getting turned down when he proposed to his ex-boyfriend. All of those things got fucked up somehow. What’s one more on top of the pile?

Trying to distract himself from the anger blooming in his spine, he decides to go through the department doors at random. This is the first time he’s been allowed loose in the department since he’d been tricked into going in by Voldemort as a teen. That was… seven, eight years ago now, right? He’s just turned twenty-three. 

Five years of his life wasted, all because he didn’t know what to do with himself after the war. 

He pushes that thought as far out of his mind as he can.

The first door he opens is to the Thought room, and he blanches at the sight of the brains, mind whirring through images of the faint scars on Ron’s arms that persist to this day. Still, he forces himself to walk through the room, everything a sickening green color from the light shining through the glass of the brain tanks. He’s glad that Thought isn’t his planned specialty.

The second door is the Death room, and he skips over that entirely for now. He knows all too well what’s in there at any rate, the dais and the archway and its gently swaying curtain. And he’ll be back soon enough.

He continues going through the rooms one by one—he’d seen all of them during their initial tour, but after that the Trainees had mostly been confined to the various Unspeakable meeting rooms for lectures and study and testing, so it’s been a while since he’s looked through everything. Space, with its hovering planets, Time, glittering and full of possibilities, the Hall of Prophecies, many shelves less full than when he’d been here in his youth, and so on and so on until he hits Love—

Love is where he stops, pausing to unlock the door with a spell only Unspeakables are allowed to know before he enters.

It’s the most elegant of all the rooms and by far the most beautiful, all done in white wood, the doors accented with delicate archways. The large Amortentia fountain in the center fills the main chamber with the smell of the most wondrous things, treacle and broomsticks and Ron and Hermione’s flat, and Harry takes a deep breath in and holds it until he thinks his lungs might give out. He exhales, looking around once more, eyes skating over the works of art that are lining the walls, ones said to encapsulate loving moments throughout history.

The very air in the room seems soothing. Though, he’s fairly sure that’s the still a side-effect of the Amortentia.

One could easily become addicted to standing here, staring at the pearly sheen of the fountain, wondering at its depths. He forces himself to turn away. This room will be a comfort in the coming days, he thinks, because while he’s done being a Trainee, specialty rotations aren’t supposed to be easy either.

He starts walking back to the door, but before he’s halfway across the room, the door opens and Malfoy steps in. Harry’s shoulders immediately tense, but he thinks of Adams’s words and forces himself to simply turn away, starting toward the door. See? He can avoid their “ _silly rivalry_ ” just fine, thank you very much.

Malfoy does no such thing.

“Still basking in the glow of your little fans, aren’t you, Potter?” Malfoy sneers as he strides past.

Slowly, Harry pivots to glare at him. “Still can’t get over your fucking attitude, can you, Malfoy?”

“Wow, what an _insult_. I’m _hurt_ ,” Malfoy says in the most insincere voice possible, and Harry braces himself against the anger that wants to erupt from his chest.

“Listen,” Harry snarls, “Just stay out of my way.”

Malfoy gives him a snide, cruel smile. “That’s not what you said when we were Trainees and you didn’t know it was me, was it? But of _course_ , the great Harry Potter would _never_ go as low as to fraternize with a former Death Eater. Shame. I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be better than turning their backs on people who helped them.”

“We helped each _other_ , okay?” Harry grits out. “And that was _it_. So now can we go back to hating each other and just fucking stop speaking so we both don’t get kicked out of the bloody program?”

“Oh? Being an Unspeakable must mean a lot to you then, hmm?” Malfoy says, looking as if this delights him for some bloody reason. “It’ll be my pleasure to point out every single time you fuck up, then.”

Harry’s hands clench into fists. “You wouldn’t dare. Even for you, that’s fucking low.”

“Who knows?” Malfoy says, shrugging blithely and turning to look at the fountain. “I am a fucking Death Eater, after all.”

One moment, Harry is standing there, glaring at him.

The next moment his anger finally erupts, hot and scalding on his skin, and he’s running toward Malfoy with his fist raised for a punch. Malfoy steps out of the way at the last second, but he’s not so lucky when Harry swings a second time with his other hand, fist connecting with Malfoy’s cheek and whipping his head to the side.

“Fucking _Potter!_ ” Malfoy groans, hand flying to his face as he stares at Harry in shock for a moment. And then he bursts out toward Harry to retaliate, and all of a sudden they’re wrestling, grabbing at each other’s shoulders, fighting for control. Harry moves for his wand but Malfoy sees what he’s doing and reaches for _his_ wand, and that’s the window of opportunity Harry needs to knock him to the floor—

Except Malfoy casts a Shield Charm at the last moment.

Harry’s not sure what happens in the split-second after that. 

All he knows is that there’s a loud splashing sound from the fountain, and then suddenly both of them are left standing there, drenched in Amortentia.

“Fucking _Merlin_ ,” Malfoy swears, staring down at his own soaked clothing.

Slowly, Harry raises his wand and casts a _Scourgify_ over both of them, thankfully ridding himself of the sticky-wet sensation of potion dripping down his skin. He glances at the fountain, which seems unharmed minus the Amortentia lost in the _Scourgify_ , thank God. He only hopes that no one will notice.

Still, he’s not sure why Malfoy’s looking at him with such an expression of horror. “What?” Harry asks, eyeing the bruise forming on Malfoy’s cheek. “It’s fine—I don’t think either of us swallowed any. Amortentia has to be ingested to work, right?”

“How did you ever fucking pass your Trainee exams?” Malfoy growls out, rubbing a hand over his face. “We went over this! _That_ ”—he gestures at the fountain—“is _not_ normal Amortentia. It’s extra-strength Amortentia, about the closest you can fucking get to replicating true love without all the bloody side effects, and even _touching_ a drop of it in the vicinity of another person—”

“…causes extreme infatuation,” Harry cuts in to finish as he finally remembers from his studies. His eyes widen in dismay. “Holy shit—”

Malfoy grimaces. “I suspect we only have a few minutes.”

“I don’t suppose there’s an antidote,” Harry says, glancing around the room in a panic.

“No. There is no antidote to extra-strength Amortentia,” Malfoy says, all of the bravado stripped from his voice. 

“We could leave?” Harry tries, already poised to Apparate.

“Wait, no!” Malfoy stops him, already sounding desperate. “It’s just—I suspect that would only make it worse.”

“Worse? What do you mean?” Harry asks, even as the panic fully sets in, panic about what’s about to happen, what he’s about to feel.

“You’ve been in love, haven’t you?” Malfoy asks, his eyes flashing. “Now imagine that feeling, except about three times stronger. We _don’t_ want to be apart right now, and at any rate even if we tried, I doubt we’d be able to stay apart once it starts— _oh_.”

A shiver travels up Harry’s spine, warm and filling him with longing all at once, and he knows immediately that _happening_ because he sees Malfoy’s jaw go slack too—

Then all of his thoughts disappear, and what takes their place is Malfoy, or rather how much Harry _yearns_ for him, so much that it’s splitting him in half just to be a few steps away. ” _God_ ,” he chokes out, and before he can even start moving forward, Malfoy is on him, embracing him, pulling him to a chest warmer than he’d ever imagined and enveloping him in the smell of lemons and charcoal and musk. It’s only amplified by the fact that the Amortentia in the fountain now smells like Malfoy too, meaning it’s all around him, dizzying Harry as he runs his hands over Malfoy’s back so he can pull him closer.

“Fuck,” Malfoy breathes, “ _fuck_. It’s—it’s just the potion, it’s just the potion—”

“Fuck the potion,” Harry mumbles, twisting his fingers into the hair at the nape of Malfoy’s neck, because this feels so _good_ , so wonderful to be close to him like this. Already, the memory of exactly why he was so concerned about this earlier is slipping away, along with every memory where he’d ever been angry with Malfoy—why would he be _angry_ with him, anyway? He can’t be now, at least not for long, because Malfoy is everything he’s ever needed, he _loves_ him—

“Potter,” Malfoy sighs, breath warm against Harry’s cheek as he kisses his jawbone, making Harry shudder. “Potter, fuck.”

Harry’s struck with the thought that it’s rather funny that Malfoy’s still calling him ‘Potter’—and for that matter, Harry’s still calling him Malfoy, isn’t he? He laughs, deep from his belly, pulling Malfoy closer still. “Draco,” he says, liking the sound of it in his mouth, “Draco.”

“ _Nngh_ ,” Draco groans, pupils dilating as Harry pulls back to stare at him. “Potter, can I—”

“Harry,” Harry corrects, laughing again, sliding his knuckles up against Draco’s cheek and making his eyelids flutter.

“Harry,” Draco says, “can I—I mean, I _need_ to, I need to kiss you—”

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, not quite sure why he hadn’t thought of that before, but now the desire burns in him, clenching in his throat and pulsing in the space between his hips. “Yes, _please_ —”

Then Draco kisses him, and it’s like fireworks, his lips soft as they move against Harry’s own, stirring so much arousal in him that he thinks he could burst. Harry groans into it, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue against Draco’s and panting as Draco slides a hand down to cup his arse.

“More,” Harry gasps out, pulling at the fastener on Draco’s robes. “Please, I need—I _need_ you—”

All at once Draco looks both frightened and completely desperate. “Not… not here,” he gasps out, but even so, he’s clutching at Harry as if he’s afraid to let go.

“My place,” Harry offers, and he notices the slightest bit of relief in Draco’s eyes but doesn’t pay it any mind—he’s too focused on thoughts like _now, please_ and _yes_ and _need you_.

“Okay,” Draco says, “Yes, yes, okay,” and then he kisses Harry fiercely, very nearly distracting Harry from the fact that he ought to Apparate them out of there.

After several moments of snogging he finally remembers, and he Apparates them into his living room mid-kiss, the crack barely audible against the heavy beating of his heart. “Fuck,” he says, grinning at the sight of Draco in his flat. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Harry,” Draco sighs, pressing him backwards until Harry’s knees hit the sofa, and he bends obligingly, letting Draco lay him down and whimpering as Draco crawls on top of him. “You’re so—fuck…”

“I’m so what?” Harry says, grinning coyly and finally, finally pulling at Draco’s robes.

“Insufferably attractive,” Draco mumbles, leaning down to press the words into Harry’s neck as if embarrassed. “Obnoxiously good-looking, _dreadfully_ endearing—” 

Harry laughs, pausing in trying to get Draco’s robes off so he can gently caress Malfoy’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says softly, nudging at Draco’s chin so Draco looks at him.

Draco blushes, bright and pink. “Don’t expect me to say it back,” he mumbles, but then he kisses Harry anyway, and Harry’s pulse is thrumming in his throat as he finally manages to unfasten Draco’s robes. “Let me,” Draco breathes, casting some sort of spell that neatly deposits his own clothing, save for pants, on a nearby chair.

Harry’s hips buck of their own accord at the warm, soft feel of Draco’s skin against his arms. “Mine too, please,” he says, heady with the feeling of his cock filling, of Draco’s body pressing down on him, surrounding him. Draco thankfully obliges, spelling Harry’s clothes off too, and then Draco leans down to bite at Harry’s nipple and Harry lets out a guttural moan. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yes, lets,” Draco mumbles, hands nimble as he toys with Harry’s waistband. “I want—fuck, I want to fill you up—”

“Draco, fuck, yes,” Harry babbles out. “Yes, yes, I— _Accio_ lube!” he calls out, and the lube comes flying around the corner and smacks into his hand.

“Did you just do that wandlessly?” Draco asks, open-mouthed and looking more than a little turned on.

Slowly, Harry grins. “Yeah,” he says. “I can do more too. Wanna see?”

Draco shudders. “Maybe—maybe after,” he says. “Right now I just… I just want to be with you,” he finishes, his words nearly a whisper by the end of it, and Harry smiles at him and slips his hand through the silky strands of Draco’s hair.

“You are with me,” Harry says, and Draco flushes again.

“Merlin, I’ve wanted this for so fucking long,” Draco tells him, the words teasing across Harry’s chest as Draco leans down and mouths at his collarbone.

“Really?” Harry asks, but then Draco stretches up to kiss him and he forgets the question.

And then there’s a hand, warm and firm, pulling down his pants and wrapping around his cock, and Harry _keens_. “Fuck, fuck,” he groans, pressing up into Draco’s touch, and Draco seems to like that because he shudders in turn, pressing his hips so his cock aligns with Harry’s leg. “We should—if we do this for long I’ll, oh God, _please_.”

“Nngh, okay, okay,” Draco says, wrenching himself away, and then he’s nudging Harry’s legs open and settling between them, grinning at him in a way that seems very un-Draco-like if Harry is to be honest.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you really smile before,” Harry muses, hissing as Draco dribbles lube down the crack of his arse.

“Surely you must have at school,” Draco says, frowning a bit, and Harry aches to kiss away the lines of stress in his face.

“Mostly you smirked. It’s different,” Harry says, and then he can’t speak anything more than a wordless moan as Draco spreads his legs even further and begins pressing a slick finger inside of him. “Fuck, Draco—it’s, it’s been a while.”

“Good,” Draco says, something predatory in his eyes as he slowly fucks into him with his finger, twisting his hand and making Harry groan. 

“And you?” Harry asks, heart chilling with jealousy as he imagines Draco with someone else.

Draco’s eyes go all shuttered. “Later,” he says, and then he kisses Harry and all his thoughts melt away.

Draco works him open with two fingers, then three, treating him more gently than Harry would’ve ever imagined. Harry’s heart nearly bursts, full to the brim as he watches Draco hovering over him, loving him, God. The hard lines of Draco’s face are softened by affection as he presses his fingers inside him until Harry’s slick and open, clenching his arse with need for more. 

“Please,” Harry lets out on a sigh, reaching out to nudge Draco’s arm, and Draco takes the cue to pull his hand away and remove his own pants. Harry watches, heart hammering, as Draco slicks up his cock, flushing and thick in his hand, and God, Harry _wants_.

Draco climbs on top of him, bracing his arms around Harry’s shoulders, kissing his neck, his shoulders, and Harry moans at the gentle sensation, reaching up to pull Draco closer—

And then Draco finally presses in, and they both groan in unison, Harry’s eyes flaring with _want_ and _need_ as Draco slowly fills him.

“Draco,” he gasps, clutching at his back, his arms. “Draco, fuck.”

“Yes— _yes_ ,” Draco chokes out, pulling out and pressing back in, hot and thick inside him. Then he sets up a frantic rhythm, grasping at Harry, and Harry attempts the best he can at this angle to push back toward him and meet him at every other thrust. It’s messy and hot and feels so fucking _good_ , especially because every now and then Draco’s eyes meet his and—and there are sparks, warm and happy, all across Harry’s skin.

Has he ever _really_ been in love before? He’s not actually sure, because every previous sexual encounter he can remember pales in comparison to this moment, to the desperate way he yearns to touch Draco even as Draco fucks into him—to the way Draco starts making little sighs and whimpers into his ear, ones that even sound like his name.

It feels like he could die happy here in Draco’s arms.

Which is why it’s so blatantly obvious when the Amortentia suddenly stops working.

Harry can feel it, mid-thrust, as all of the love in his veins completely vanishes. And then it’s replaced with all the hatred and rage he’d been feeling in the moments before the fountain erupted, only stronger, because what the _fuck_ have they just done?

Above him, Malfoy stills, his face contorting into a stern frown. “Fuck,” he says, then louder, “Fuck!”

Harry’s so fucking _angry_ , which normally would have made him go soft by now. But his prick is still full, pulsing against his belly, and even more surprising is that he’s still feeling arousal so strong that it burns inside of him. 

Fuck.

He still _wants_ this.

Slowly, he removes his hands from around Malfoy’s back, swallowing thickly—because Malfoy, too, is still hard inside of him. “You won’t keep going,” he goads.

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Malfoy says, and it must be an aftereffect of the potion that makes the words hurt just a little. 

But stronger that is the equal, rivalling hate in Harry’s lungs. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know,” he spits out, and Malfoy lets out a frustrated groan—

And then Malfoy starts fucking him again, but harder this time, slamming into Harry so forcefully he rocks back against the cushions with every thrust, and _fuck_ it feels good. Clenching his teeth, Harry hooks his hands behind his knees and pulls them higher, feeling a small amount of delight in the way Malfoy can’t withhold a moan the next time he presses in.

“This doesn’t mean _anything_ ,” Malfoy says, his arms starting to shake, and then he moans high and needy as he comes, hot and pulsing inside Harry.

When he finally pulls out, Harry almost expects him to immediately leave without looking back. But instead Malfoy slicks his hand and wraps around Harry’s cock instead, avoiding his eyes, stroking with a quick, sloppy rhythm that makes Harry shudder beneath him.

“You better fucking come,” Malfoy mutters, probably because he just wants to get it over with. Harry wants to retort, but then Malfoy twists his hand in the most perfect way and then Harry _does_ come all over Malfoy’s fist, sealing his mouth shut so he doesn’t let a single moan escape as he bucks helplessly against him.

And then it’s over.

They sit up, and Harry immediately grabs his wand and casts a _Scourgify_ , disgusted at the wetness now seeping out of him. “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, _Potter_ ,” Malfoy snaps, collecting his clothes and pulling them on with no small amount of force.

“It wasn’t all _my_ fault,” Harry says, outrage slowly filling him as he too dresses. “It was just as much yours as mine and you know it!”

“Yes, but you’re not the one who has to go home now and tell their _wife_ ,” Malfoy spits out, the words hot and seething as he throws his robes over his shoulder and Apparates away with a loud crack. Then he’s gone.

He’s… he’s _married_.

Fucking _shit_.

Harry is left glaring at the place where Malfoy once was, desperately trying to forget what was both the best and worst sex he’s had in his entire fucking life.

\--

Draco is still vibrating with fury as he stalks into his own bedroom, spelling his clothes into the laundry because they’ve touched Potter and he needs them _off_.

“Draco?” Astoria calls from the adjoining sitting room, the one she’s all but claimed as her own to lounge and sleep in.

“Not now,” he bites out, because he needs to take a fucking shower. He can’t get the scent of Potter out of his nose.

“I take it the Unspeakable promotion didn’t go well,” says Astoria, lovely and frail as she comes over to lean against the doorframe. She seems unbothered by the fact that he’s standing in the middle of the room naked, but he Summons his silk bathrobe and pulls it on anyway.

“No, it’s not that,” Draco snaps, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He shuts his eyes, but the moment he does so, images of a naked Potter beneath him flash across his vision, and he has to open them again in a hurry. He shakes his head. “I had sex,” he says abruptly. He withholds the part about the Amortentia—that, he’ll keep to himself.

To her credit, Astoria doesn’t show anything more than mild surprise. “Oh,” she says. Then she grins. “Was it good?”

“ _No_ ,” Draco says, and then he feels guilty for snapping because Astoria doesn’t deserve his anger.

She’s his best friend, after all. She’s funny and clever and intelligent and shares his enthusiasm for both reading and watching Quidditch, among other things.

It’s almost a shame he’s gay.

Astoria is his wife only in name, an arrangement years ago to appease both of their parents. They’ve never slept together, nor do they share a bed. They only kissed at the wedding.

He _does_ love her. Just not romantically. He really only brought her up earlier just to make Potter feel worse, if he’s to be honest.

Astoria rolls her eyes. “Don’t get cross with me, Draco. I doubt it’s me you’re angry at.”

Draco sighs deeply. “It was P—I mean, it was my coworker,” he says, remembering at the last moment that they’re forbidden from revealing other Unspeakable identities. That’s fine. Astoria has no need to know just how deeply fucked he is, given that it’s Potter that he had his cock in barely ten minutes ago. She’s seen him glaring at Potter in the papers. And, okay, maybe ogling his face for a bit longer than strictly necessary, damn his past self.

Arching her brow, Astoria walks over to perch on his bed. “So you were angry at your coworker and then you fucked him, or you were angry at your coworker because you fucked him?”

Draco glares at the floor. “Both.”

“Of course,” Astoria says, laughing. “And now you’re all upset because you have to deal with working with him for the foreseeable future, right?”

“It’s not _just_ that,” Draco says, frowning. “It’s…” He shakes his head, frustrated. “I can’t talk about it without revealing who he is.”

“Right, right,” Astoria says, nodding. “Unspeakable rules, I get it.” 

She starts coughing loudly then, and he goes to her and rubs her shoulder until she’s over the fit—the coughing comes more and more frequently nowadays, each time feeling like the ticking of an ominous clock as the blood curse she’s been unfairly saddled with slowly wreaks havoc through her body. It’s the reason Draco ultimately joined the Unspeakables. And it’s a last resort, at that. They’ve seen what feels like most of the Curse Breakers in existence, but too little is known about her ancestor, the one who was originally cursed to carry this awful thing along in her bloodline. Every single Curse Breaker said the same thing: until more details are found, it’s impossible to derive a solution.

In the meantime, Astoria is dying.

If they could just slow down the curse’s progression, it would be easier to study, one of the Curse Breakers said. Right now, it’s simply too quick, too unpredictable, barely even responding to their diagnostic spells. 

In other words, they need more _time_. Which is precisely what Draco is planning to study.

“Oh, stop looking at me like I’m going to break,” Astoria admonishes him despite the paleness of her face. “I’ve got years left—decades, maybe, and you know it.”

So the Healers say. But Draco finds that hard to believe, as he watches her grow weaker with every passing month. “I know,” he says wearily.

“Listen,” Astoria says. “I’m _fine_. And I don’t know who this mysterious coworker of yours is—though I have my suspicions—”

“It’s not—” Draco starts, but she shushes him.

“Nope. Not going to discuss it,” Astoria says, grinning in that fierce way of hers. “I’m keeping my imagination to myself, mind you. At any rate, things will settle down eventually between you and him, I’m sure. And who knows—maybe you’ll sleep with him again.” She pauses, then laughs at his expression, which has twisted into one of horror.

“Not bloody likely,” he mutters, and then he stands up and goes to take his shower.

\--

Harry doesn’t speak a word about what happened to Ron and Hermione at their weekly Saturday night dinner—both because there’s not much he can say without violating the Oath and because he doesn’t know what he would say even if he _could_ talk about it. In fact, he simply decides to stop thinking of sex with Malfoy whenever possible, and he’s doing so good a job at ignoring it that he very nearly forgets it happened in the first place.

Until he sees Malfoy that Monday at work, that is.

As he watches Malfoy walk into the meeting room, black Unspeakable robes billowing around him, tall and lean and unfairly handsome as he strides over to where the rest of the Apprentices are standing—it all comes rushing back to Harry.

Malfoy holding him, warm and secure. Malfoy leaning over him, warmth in his eyes, pressing into Harry like a lover. Malfoy, saying his name in ways that make Harry’s heart flip, even now.

Harry has never so desperately wanted and not wanted something at the same time.

He hates it. He’s so fucking _confused._

Thankfully the wanting slowly fades—maybe just a side effect of the Amortentia after all—only to be replaced with resignation that he still, unfortunately, has to work with Malfoy. 

He’ll simply have to return to his original plan—ignore him entirely. It should be easy enough, given that they’ll all be cooped up in separate departments from now on, and thankfully enough no one seems to have noticed the mishap with the fountain.

He can just put everything to do with Malfoy behind him.

“Good morning,” says Unspeakable Adams, gesturing at the five of them. “It is now time to choose your first specialty rotations. I’m sure you all have been looking forward to this.” She Summons a handful of small slips of paper, shimmering with charms. “Simply write down your first and second choice, and then the magic will sort you.”

Each of them takes a slip of paper, and Harry’s heart beats dully as he stares down at the little blank lines, rummaging in his pocket for a quill. Now is the moment of truth, he thinks as he finds his quill and unshrinks it. Does he have the bollocks to do what he came here to do?

“Oh, before I forget,” Adams says, causing them all to look upward again. “Unspeakable Jones has very recently returned home to deal with an unforeseen family emergency. She is in charge of overseeing Apprentices in the Time department, so unfortunately Time will not be an option for this rotation.”

Quietly, Harry hears Malfoy swear.

So Malfoy wanted Time, then. Interesting. Harry has no interest in dealing with Time—it seems far too complicated, and after seeing the immense potential for chaos when Hermione took him back in time during their third year at school, he’s absolutely certain he wants nothing to do with it.

He wonders why Malfoy’s interested.

But he still has his own decision to make. He takes a deep breath and lifts his quill, scrawling onto the first blank line: _Death_.

He shivers. His stomach is twisting itself into knots, but he’ll have to face it someday, the swaying curtain under the archway. The desire to learn more about death and its ways has given him purpose again, to learn exactly why and how he was able to return to life, while so many others including Sirius and Remus and his parents had to die. It’s given him a direction after a long time of feeling lost. 

And it’s cathartic, in a way, to view death academically instead of through the lens of the loss and emotion he’s attached to it over the years. It was enough to get him off of his sofa and make him apply for the Unspeakable position, even though Hermione warned him that she heard it was a ton of work. Which it was. But he made it through. He’s never been the best at studying, but he’s picked up enough good habits from Hermione over the years that he just managed to scrape by during the Trainee exams.

Malfoy helped too, of course. But Harry refuses to let his mind stray there anymore.

His second choice of rotation doesn’t matter nearly as much, but it still makes his heart flip in his chest as he writes the word, “ _Prophecy_.”

When he looks up, it appears the rest of them have finished writing. Adams raises her wand and swishes it cleanly, causing the slips to soar into the air in front of her. Then, one by one, she taps them with her wand and they disintegrate into ash. “Unspeakable Bailey is assigned to the Space department,” she says, motioning to whom Harry used to know as Trainee Two. “Unspeakable Lee to the Love department,” Adams continues. “Unspeakable Knight to the Hall of Prophecy, and…” She holsters her wand. “Both Unspeakable Potter and Unspeakable Malfoy to the Death department.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up, and he nearly objects, but Adams gives both of them a look of warning and Harry is forced to stand down. Fuck. He didn’t even know that was possible, being assigned to the same department—after all, why did they even put down multiple choices if _this_ was going to happen?

Numbly, Harry turns to follow the other Trainees to their designated departments, but Malfoy hangs back with Adams. Curious, Harry hovers at the door and listens to their conversation.

“…surely we won’t receive the highest quality education possible if there are two of us,” Malfoys says. “I mean, part of the advantage of the Unspeakable curriculum is the one-to-one interaction with more experienced—”

“Unspeakable Malfoy,” Adams says sternly. “Sucking up is not going to get you anywhere in this department and you know that. Now move along to your rotation before I start to second guess whether or not you and Potter can be trusted to work together.”

Malfoy nods tightly and turns toward the door, and Harry quickly leaves, hoping not to be caught listening. But Malfoy catches up to him on the way to the department anyway.

“Eavesdropping, hmm, Potter?”

Harry simply grunts, because he’s ignoring Malfoy. He is. Really.

He _has_ to, because Malfoy’s walking close enough that Harry can smell him, and all the memories come rushing back. That smell is irrevocably connected to _good things_ in Harry’s mind, to warmth and happiness and feeling so fucking loved—

And _this_ is why he’s been trying not to think about it. Because it’s absolutely mad to be mourning the loss of someone he hates, to be missing touching him like this. 

Not to mention Malfoy’s _married_.

He thinks of what would happen if he touched Malfoy, how ridiculous that would be, and then he remembers punching him, the harsh feel of his fist colliding with Malfoy’s cheek. He can’t help but glance at Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy’s either healed the bruise or Glamoured it because it’s no longer there. 

The weird part of Harry that insists on being intrigued by Malfoy kind of wishes he’d left the mark on his face.

Thankfully his thoughts are interrupted by their arrival at the department door. It’s labeled with shimmering runes, only visible to Unspeakables under Oath, to discern it from the other doors in the round entrance hall. Harry is more than grateful for it—otherwise he’d probably be unbearably lost. 

They go inside, and Harry forces himself to avoid looking at the dais for now as they cross the room, gritting his teeth to block out the whispering. But soon enough they’ve made it across, and they walk up to a small, nondescript door on the other side of the chamber. Malfoy steps forward and raps his knuckles on the wooden surface. 

It takes a moment for it to open, and Harry curses every second of it, feeling like his spine is prickling with the discomfort of being in this room once again. But finally, the door opens, revealing a very short, very ancient-looking wizard, and Harry allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Come in,” the man says, his voice like paper, and Harry doesn’t find it at all hard to believe that this man studies death. He follows Malfoy and steps over the threshold. “I’m Unspeakable Hughes,” the man continues. “Two of you this time, goodness. It’s about time we had some new Apprentices…”

Harry swallows nervously. “Do you not usually get applicants?” he asks, looking curiously around the small, dark, dusty office they’ve stepped into. There are four small desks shoved into the room, each one against a wall with barely space to walk between them. Where there aren’t desks, there are bookshelves that reach all the way up to the high ceilings. Two of the desks are occupied with a witch and a wizard who both look nearly as old as Unspeakable Hughes, but neither of them turns from their work to offer a greeting.

Hughes shrugs one shoulder as if moving both is too much effort—which it may well be, considering how old he looks. “Most young Unspeakables want something more… exciting.”

Harry’s so taken aback that he can’t think of a good way to respond, so he doesn’t, following along with Malfoy as Hughes takes them to the darkest back corner of the room.

“I swear there was another torch around here…” Hughes says to himself. “Ah, well, I expect you’ll find it at some point.” He holds out his arm. “Afraid we’ve only got one desk to spare. I’ll bring another chair over.”

Harry stares at Hughes mutely as he putters away, then glances at Malfoy, brow wrinkling in horror. It seems he made a dire mistake by thinking that all of this couldn’t possibly get any more ridiculous. But it obviously can—and _has_ —because now they’re being forced to share a _desk_. Which it seems they’ll have to comply with, as this room is simply too small to fit another one in here. What in the bloody hell?

So much for ignoring Malfoy. It’ll likely be impossible now. Fuck.

To make things worse, he can nearly feel the way Malfoy is bristling at the situation, and that in turn makes Harry feel even more annoyed, because now he has to share a tiny corner with Malfoy while Malfoy’s throwing his own temper tantrum. Of _course_. 

“I can practically hear you thinking insults at me, Potter,” Malfoy drawls, and Harry realizes he’s been glaring at him.

“So what if I am?” Harry mutters.

“Childish,” Malfoy accuses loftily.

Harry rolls his eyes. “At least I’m not speaking them aloud.”

Hughes interrupts them by walking back over with a creaky-looking wooden chair Levitated in front of him. He sets it down with a dull thunk next to the similar chair already at the desk, then nods once. “There,” he says, brushing his hands off as if he’d gotten them dusty. “Feel free to read any of the books we’ve got lying around here. I’ll be over there if you need me.” He points with a bony finger to another desk across the small room.

“Wait,” Malfoy says as Hughes begins to shuffle away. “Aren’t you supposed to give us some sort of project? Or a research direction?”

Again, a one-armed shrug. “You have to find that on your own, lad. Death has been around since before humanity existed. It generally takes years to find a topic that hasn’t been studied by some civilization or another.” He smiles at them as if that’s barely an issue, even as Harry stares at him, aghast.

Then he walks away.

Malfoy waits until he’s out of earshot before shoving past Harry to sit in one of the chairs. “Well this was a fucking waste of time,” he says quietly.

“Shut it,” Harry mumbles as he sits down too, not wanting to get overheard. Although, privately, he’s thinking exactly the same thing. He’s not sure he has the attention span to spend _months_ looking for a topic, let alone years. “You think that if we really had researched Death well, we’d have solved it by now.”

“Well, haven’t we, to some extent?” Malfoy asks, casting a _Scourgify_ on their area so strong that Harry’s nose feels clean. 

He itches it, making a face. At least all of the dust is gone from the desk, leaving only a scattering of old books on its surface. “What do you mean?”

“Witches and wizards live far longer than Muggles do, obviously,” Malfoy states, face twisting as if it’s a pain to even have to speak to Harry. “Then there’s other methods of prolonged immortality, such as the Sorcerer’s Stone, which I’m sure _you’re_ well-acquainted with. We know how to extend life, thereby pushing away Death. Is that too much for your tiny brain to handle?”

Harry sighs and ignores the quip, thinking instead of unicorn blood and Horcruxes. In a way, Malfoy is right. “We can summon death too,” he realizes, mulling it over—it’s only too easy to kill someone with magic, to invite Death to one’s door, whether only incidentally or on purpose. 

“That doesn’t even require magic,” Malfoy points out loftily. “Muggles do it all the time… But yes. The Killing Curse is basically death incarnate.”

“Hm,” Harry grunts. They sink into silence, and Harry idly picks up one of the books sitting in front of them. The cover is so faded he can’t read it, but he flips it open and attempts to begin deciphering the text anyway.

Eventually Malfoy does the same, and Harry reflects that this was probably the first nearly-civil conversation they’ve had in—well, ever. Not counting when Malfoy was Four, of course. The two of them are world’s away in Harry’s mind.

He’s not sure what to think about that, so he doesn’t.

\--

Draco is utterly, vehemently _bored_.

Five days he’s sat here in the Death department, faffing around and attempting to find something in a book that interests him. But that’s the thing. There’s no _new_ and _exciting_ research in the Death department. They know why Death happens, they know how to make it happen, and they know how to circumvent it.

Nearly the only question left is what happens _when_ one dies, but both he and Potter have separately brought that up to Hughes, and both times they’ve gotten the same answer: “Beyond the veil, of course.” Hughes refuses to humor any other questions about the topic.

When Draco tries to enquire about what the other Unspeakables are working on, he’s confronted with topics such as “Quantitative Analyses of Magical Interplay in Bodily Weakening Due to Old Age” and “In-Depth Interviews about Life and Death in Wizards Above Age 150.” Which he’s sure are topics that are _scintillating_ , really, except that nothing in this damned dusty hellhole is helping get any closer to figuring out Astoria’s curse.

At this rate _he’ll_ die of old age before he finds an answer.

Okay, okay, he’s being melodramatic. Unspeakable rotations only last two months, and realistically Astoria will be fine, at least according to her Healer. But then again, her Healer also said a few months ago that Astoria’s coughing fits shouldn’t get worse, and they have, so obviously they can’t predict everything, now can they?

So he’s left here, just sitting in the dark, musty Death department every day, staring down at books while quietly seething. To be honest, he doesn’t know how Potter stands it either.

Potter.

The other bane of his existence.

He’s so. Bloody. _Distracting_.

Potter sits there, and sometimes he reads, but other times the boredom radiates off of him in waves so strong Draco can feel it secondhand. Sometimes he folds his notebook paper into messy origami and then Vanishes it with a huff of resignation, sometimes he stares idly up at the ceiling for minutes on end. Draco aims dark glares at him whenever possible, but either Potter doesn’t see him or is just plain ignoring his obvious displeasure.

It’s a pity Draco can’t ignore him as well. He’d like nothing more, but he can’t. It reminds him of sixth year, watching Potter watch him, feeling trapped and bitter and—and yearning, late at night, touching himself to quiet fantasies of Potter watching him in a _different_ way. 

And then hating himself for it, of course.

He spent many sleepless nights that year thinking of bright green eyes and messy black hair beneath his fingertips. Thinking of touching Potter.

It’s the same, isn’t it? He can’t stop thinking of touching him and he _hates_ that. Not to mention his present situation is frankly worse because now Draco _has_ touched him—he’s been fucking inside of him, has felt Potter hot beneath him, has _kissed_ him—and yes, it was under Amortentia, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how it felt to have Potter smile at him and tell him he loved him.

He doesn’t want that. He _doesn’t_.

Except now that it’s happened part of him wants that terribly.

What is he thinking? He’s fucking _married_. Not that it’s a real marriage, not by any means, but the Malfoy estate doesn’t know the difference, and its magic doesn’t look kindly at long-winded affairs. There are stories of various Malfoys’ year-long sordid trysts ending with them tossed on their arses, locked out of the Manor grounds before their wives or husbands ever found out. Horrendous.

Sure, he goes to the Diagon Gentlewizard’s club on occasion at Astoria’s behest. But even then Astoria usually comes along with him, despite not having interest in such things. So the point stands that he _cannot_ touch Potter again. He shouldn’t _want_ to. He still fucking hates him.

Though he maybe doesn’t hate him as much as he used to. 

Fucking Amortentia.

Now that these awful feelings have made themselves evident, it’s the worst kind of torture to be literally sharing a desk with Potter. Draco can hear his every movement, Draco can hear him _breathing_ —

Draco can smell him, all warm and somehow reminding him of Quidditch, every time Potter idly shifts in his chair. Sometimes their knees brush against each other under the desk, sending sparks up Draco’s spine, and he’s fiercely glad they never located the missing torch in their corner because the _Lumos_ es they’ve been casting to properly read their books aren’t bright enough to show his occasional flush.

He’s at his wits’ end when he returns home Friday night in a sulky mood, which Astoria recognizes immediately, wordlessly going to scrawl an order for Owl-In fish and chips on a bit of parchment and sending it off with one of the Manor Owls.

“This is why I love you,” Draco says, moaning in delight later at his first bite of fish.

Astoria rolls her eyes. “You only say that when you feel guilty about something.”

“Do not,” Draco mutters even though he knows it’s true. He wipes his hand with a napkin.

“I’ve booked you time at Bentley’s tomorrow night,” Astoria says, and Draco nearly spits out his next bite of food.

“Oh—ah, all right,” he says, swallowing and attempting to disguise his alarm.

It doesn’t work, of course. Astoria squints at him. “Usually you’re excited.”

“Not _always_ ,” Draco says, even though it’s a lie—Bentley’s is discreet and their employees are stunningly good in bed, much better than fucking someone in a grimy club loo.

Astoria snorts. “Yes, _always_. You love sex about as much as I despise it.”

Draco toys around with a chip, contemplating her words before taking a bite. “Do you really despise it? I just always assumed you weren’t interested.”

“It comes and goes,” Astoria says, shrugging. “Sometimes I find it mildly interesting, sometimes not. I’ve simply never wanted it enough to bother.”

“Hmm,” Draco says, wondering why he hadn’t known that before. He knows she doesn’t want children, and he would never want her to bear them—he’s fairly certain the strain would kill her. He’s known that she identifies as asexual as well, but he supposes he’s never pressed her on the particulars.

“Anyway, don’t try to worm your way out of the subject,” Astoria says. “Are you sure it’s all right? Shall I cancel the Bentley’s appointment?”

“No, no,” Draco says, shaking his head. A good time in bed is probably just what he needs to get Potter off his mind, honestly.

“If you’re sure…” Astoria says pensively.

He looks over, noticing then that she’s barely picked at her food. He frowns. “Stop worrying,” he says. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” Astoria tells him, immediately going to eat a bit of fish. “ _You_ stop worrying. You’re worse than my mum.”

Draco wrinkles his nose—Astoria’s mum is not unpleasant, albeit over-perfumed and fairly conservative in her beliefs. Still, that doesn’t mean he wants to be _compared_ to her. 

“All right, all right,” he says, and Astoria laughs.

“Draco,” she says after a moment. “Your coworker—the one you slept with.”

“What about him?” he asks, suddenly alarmed.

Her head tilts. “You don’t have to answer this—I know you’re under Oath and whatnot. But it’s Harry Potter, isn’t it?”

He can’t answer the question. But he can feel the blood draining from his face, and he knows at once that she knows she’s right.

“Hm,” she says. “Interesting.”

There’s something odd in her voice, he thinks. But he can’t deal with it right now, stunned into silence as he is, so instead he tries his best to absorb himself in his meal once more. 

\--

Harry is out shopping when he feels a light tap on his shoulder, turning to see a slight woman with dark hair and pretty eyes. She’s holding a basket containing only a baguette and a block of cheese. “Er,” he says, “Sorry, was I in the way?”

“No, no, not at all,” the woman says, smiling pleasantly. “I’m Astoria Malfoy.”

Harry stares at her, forgetting his manners completely as his mouth drops open. 

Malfoy’s _wife_. 

He vaguely remembers her from Hogwarts, but he barely knows anything about her—a product of being in different years and different Houses, he supposes. “Er, hello?” he says, finally remembering to shut his mouth. He wants to ask how she found him, but then again, maybe she’s bumped into him on accident—maybe she’s simply coming to ask him about the war, like so many others do.

Or not. Astoria cocks her head, and Harry catches a hint of shrewdness from her that reminds him of both Hermione and Ginny at once. Which, of course, is terrifying. “I was wondering,” she says, “And pardon if this is rude, but—do you happen to work in the Department of Mysteries?”

Harry furrows his brow. “Wait,” he says, “Malfoy wasn’t supposed to say anything—”

“Oh, no—don’t worry, he didn’t,” she says, motioning him to the side of the aisle as an elderly witch pushes her trolley on by. “It was just a guess on my part.”

“Oh,” Harry says. It’s honestly quite astute of her to ask him personally, as it means no rules are actually being broken. “Yeah,” he says, “I am.”

And then he remembers—Malfoy said he was going to tell her, didn’t he? About… about the Amortentia. His face pales, his stomach twisting as he realizes just why she’s talking to him in the first place. “Er,” he says, “I’m—I’m sorry, you know—it was a complete accident, and—”

“What are you apologizing for?” Astoria asks, looking confused. Harry stammers for a moment, attempting to think of a good way to put ‘ _I slept with your husband_ ’ into words, and then she bursts out laughing. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, coughing a bit—Harry can hear her lungs wheeze.

“Are you all right?” he asks, alarmed.

“I’m fine, just a cold,” she says, waving off his concern despite the fact that she’s still breathing heavily. “At any rate… don’t worry. I know about what happened between you and Draco.” Slowly, she levels a glare at him, and he flinches, immediately becoming aware that they’re in the middle of the supermarket. He casts a _Muffliato_ , bracing himself before she tears him one. 

Except then she starts laughing again. 

“Merlin, sorry to be making fun at your expense,” she says, still grinning. “I don’t get out much, see.”

Harry blinks at her. “You’re… not angry? About Malfoy and I?”

“Of course not,” Astoria says, seeming surprised. “…Oh, hm. Did he not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Harry asks.

“Our marriage isn’t a love match, you know,” she says, amusement in her eyes. “It was never consummated, and frankly I don’t care who he shares a bed with.”

“What?” Harry repeats, feeling a bit in shock if he’s to be honest. If that was the case, why did Malfoy make such a big deal about being married?

“What I mean is… hmm. It’ll be easier to show you, I think.” She digs around in the purse on her shoulder for a piece of parchment and a quill, scribbling down an address and handing it to Harry.

He looks down at it. _Bentley’s Gentlewizard’s Club_ , it reads at the top, and—oh. _Oh_. He’s heard of this place. Blushing, he looks back up at her in bewilderment. “I, um, I don’t really need their, er, services right now—”

“Not for _you_ ,” Astoria says, grinning wickedly. “I wrote a room number as well. Come there tonight at eight—if you’re curious, that is. About Draco. Or ignore me, whichever suits you.”

“Hold on,” he says, the slip of paper crinkling in his hand as he stares at her, confused. “Er, just—why bother?”

“Because I think Draco’s curious about you,” Astoria says, making Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “He’s my best friend, you know. I want the best for him.”

Before he can protest, she walks away with a wave of farewell, darting past the edges of the Muffliato.

He doesn’t know what to think. Draco’s curious about him?

He should Vanish the slip of paper she gave him. Really, he should.

Instead he puts it in the pocket of his shirt. There it burns, for hours and hours as he goes about his day, forcing him to realize he’s actually considering _going_.

This is an absolutely awful, terrible idea.

He goes anyway.

Unsureness clogs his throat as he Apparates, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t splinch himself. The building he lands in front of is one in a row of many lining a quiet cross-street of Diagon, its façade unassuming, not even a sign denoting what it is. But he’s been told of things one might do inside; it was one of many things discussed during a long conversation with Charlie after Harry’s ex dumped him. The club sounds intriguing, sure, but Harry’s never felt the need to go.

Until now. Because he can never be sensible where Malfoy’s concerned, can he? 

This is such a bad idea.

He swallows nervously, pushing open the doors anyway and heading straight to what looks like the reception desk. He wonders if he should’ve Glamoured himself, but by then it’s too late, as the woman standing behind the desk has already spotted him.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” the woman says. “We were told we might expect you.” She picks up a small orb from beneath the desk, tapping it with her wand, and it glows brightly and begins to float. “You may follow the orb to your room.”

Heart in his throat, Harry obeys—he can’t really back out now, can he? So he follows the orb as it hovers through the air, walking down a hallway lit by torches, then up a set of stairs and finally down another hallway. At last the orb pauses in front of one of the doors lining the hall, and when Harry stands in front of it, the orb vanishes.

Taking a deep breath, Harry pushes the door open.

He’s honestly relieved when he’s faced only with Astoria, sitting in one of two chairs in a room that’s only slightly larger than a broom closet. “Oh, you’re here,” Astoria says, looking pleasantly surprised. “Just in time for me to leave.”

“Leave?” he asks, confused.

But she says nothing, only gesturing to the wall as he steps fully into the room, letting the door close behind him—and it’s at that point that he realizes the wall is charmed almost completely transparent. 

The room adjacent to them is dimly lit, featuring only a bed and some chairs, and on the bed is a dark-haired, naked man doesn’t recognize, lying on top of another man, kissing him— 

The man beneath him is Malfoy.

“Fuck,” Harry swears quietly, cock pulsing despite himself. “I—I shouldn’t be here,”

“Don’t worry,” Astoria says. “He can’t see us. The transparency spell is set to only go one way—for now, that is.”

“But,” Harry says, gulping, “I mean, he doesn’t… isn’t this… His privacy, I mean…”

“Oh, I see,” Astoria says, nodding in understanding. “It’s all right. This place is very thorough, and they have everyone fill out forms on what they want and don’t want sexually when they first come here. Draco put exhibitionism as something he’s definitely good with on his forms—I can show you, if you’d like—and there are no exceptions noted as long as it wasn’t a woman, besides me, of course.”

Harry stares at her, trying desperately to ignore the two men tangled together on the bed, which is difficult because just then Malfoy lets out a low moan and Harry _knows_ that moan. Intimately. “It’s fine,” he says eventually. “You don’t need to show me—just, I… I don’t quite get it,” he says. “You—you’re here, and… and watching him?”

“Oh, I don’t watch,” Astoria says. “There’s a waiting area that I usually sit in—quite nice, actually, there’s a masseuse down there too. But I wanted to show you this, because I just thought that you might not believe me if I said that I honestly don’t mind you having sex with him.” She gestures at Malfoy. “I might encourage it, even.”

She must be absolutely mad. “But _why?_ ” Harry asks. 

“Did you know he’s gay?” Astoria asks abruptly. Which. Harry didn’t. Huh. “Which means that there’s absolutely nothing I can do to give him a fulfilling sexual relationship, even if I wanted to.” She sighs. “I think he misses it.”

“But I’m not… I’m not the right person for that,” Harry stammers out, shaking his head. “He… we hate each other. Have since Hogwarts.”

“And yet you fucked him, and he’s been preoccupied by it ever since,” Astoria says bluntly. 

Malfoy? Preoccupied by him? That’s bloody odd to think about, honestly. He supposes that even when he himself was unhealthily obsessed with Malfoy in sixth year, he’d never once considered that it might be possible for that preoccupation to go the other way.

But he’s sure that any preoccupation is most likely a mere side-effect of the Amortentia. Harry read up on it again after fountain incident, just in case he missed something about its effects, and apparently the aftereffects on one’s mind can linger for weeks. It’s all at once horrifying and relieving—it at least gives him an excuse to why he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Malfoy since.

He can’t wait for it to wear off.

Upon seeing Harry’s dubious expression, Astoria sighs. “I apologize. I think maybe I mis-pegged the situation,” she says, looking strangely disappointed. “You can leave if you’d like—they offer Obliviatory services if that’s something you’re in need of.” 

Harry bites his lip, mind whirling. Somehow Malfoy’s _wife_ just literally told him that he could sleep with Malfoy if he wanted. Which he _doesn’t_. Of course not. No way. He can walk out right now, can ask the receptionist to Obliviate the shit out of him, and simply go on with his life as normal.

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” Malfoy moans from the other side of the wall, and Harry can’t help himself—he turns and looks.

And immediately regrets it, because fuck—now Malfoy’s naked on all fours on the bed, arse up in the air, whimpering as the other man presses a finger slowly inside him. As Harry watches, Malfoy spreads his legs open even further, mouth rounding into an ‘o’ as he takes another finger. And Harry is suddenly, blindingly hard.

Not even quite realizing he’s doing it, he feels around behind him for a chair, unable to look away as he sits down.

“Hm,” Astoria says in surprise. “Should _I_ leave?”

“No—‘s fine,” Harry says, his voice coming out strangled, because he absolutely won’t wank to this if Astoria’s here. So she can’t leave, because he doesn’t _want_ to wank to this. Really. 

Which makes it unfortunate then that he’s hard as fuck, arousal is pumping into his veins as surely as if _he_ were the one lying there, getting fingered open.

At the edge of his vision, Astoria nods. “Right then,” she says, standing and walking to the door. “By the way—the spell to make the other side transparent is _Claros_ , if that’s something you’d be interested in. Merlin, sex makes people so _weird…_ ” 

She leaves, shutting the door behind her before he can ask her to stay.

So then Harry is left alone with the vision in front of him, of Malfoy’s pale body in profile, arched toward the other man, gasping with every thrust of the man’s fingers. He’s up to three, now, sliding slickly into Malfoy’s arse, and Harry can see _everything_.

“ _Now_ ,” Malfoy says, commands, really, and the other man nods and readies his cock. Harry stares, transfixed, as the man pushes slowly inside Malfoy and Malfoy’s whole body goes taut, his chest heaving as he breathes.

Then Malfoy fucking _whimpers_ , and Harry can’t help it—he presses a hand to his cock, straining in his jeans.

The man starts fucking Malfoy, pistoning his hips slowly, causing Malfoy to brace himself against the bed with his arms. Harry slowly strokes his cock through the rough fabric of his jeans, fighting to keep a moan of his own from escaping—Merlin help him, this is the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen. 

“More, damnit,” Malfoy grits out, and the other man grins and starts pumping faster inside him. Malfoy groans loudly and clutches at the sheets, and close enough to the window that Harry can see the beads of sweat that are forming on his back. _Fuck_. 

One moment, he’s watching Malfoy get fucked. The next, he’s thinking about how it would be if _he_ were the one fucking Malfoy, and God, suddenly he wants that more than he’s ever wanted sex with someone in his life. 

He wants to be the name Malfoy groans out when he comes, and not even in a romantic way, really—it was just infuriatingly hot the last time, Malfoy moaning his name all breathily. Malfoy _is_ hot, even now in front of him, arching his back and pressing himself onto another man’s cock. And it’s okay to think that just for now, right? Even if Harry still hates him? 

It has to be all right, because he can’t help it. He wants to be the one touching Malfoy, cock deep inside of him, grabbing at Malfoy’s arse, his hips. He wants to lick at the tiny beads of sweat on Malfoy’s back, wants to groan as Malfoy squeezes tighter around him—

He wants Malfoy to _look_ at him.

 _The spell is Claros_ , Astoria had said, and God.

On impulse, Harry shudders a breath and casts.

It takes a moment for Malfoy to notice the wall has gone clear. When he does, it’s obvious—he locks eyes with Harry, his mouth dropping open. And then in the space between one thrust and the next, he’s moaning out something unintelligible that nearly sounds like “ _Potter_ ” and coming, his cock untouched, squeezing his eyes closed as he bucks his hips against the other man and spurts out over the sheets.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Harry nearly trips over the chair as he stands and leaves the room nearly at a run, because he _liked_ that. He _liked_ Malfoy looking at him, saying his name, he liked watching Malfoy coming—and he wants to do it all again. 

And he’s not at all ready for that realization. It’s _Malfoy_.

By the time Malfoy opens his eyes, Harry is long gone.

\--

Draco lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s late. But he can’t sleep.

He _swears_ he had seen Potter earlier at Bentley’s. But it had only been for a few seconds, so he can’t bring himself to actually believe it—what if it was simply a trick of his own mind, after all?

Potter’s eyes had been wide, his hand pressed to the front of his jeans, his expression one of undeniable lust. It’s not dissimilar to a daydream Draco had once—well, okay, several times—of Potter watching him wank, his eyes wide behind his glasses, getting so turned on that he couldn’t help but touch himself too.

Most likely it was just Draco’s lust-addled brain projecting his desires in the spur of the moment. But… what if it _was_ real?

He has to tell himself that it’s not bloody likely. It’s just his own mind playing tricks on him, the culmination of a week full of Potter’s knee brushing against his and Potter’s scent warm in his nose.

Knowing that it wasn’t really Potter there doesn’t change the fact that he can’t sleep. 

Mostly because he’s too fucking aroused.

Finally, gritting his teeth, Draco relents, sliding his hand into his pajama bottoms and closing his eyes. Then, just like sixth year, he wanks to the thought of Potter watching him.

\--

Monday at work is awkward, to say the least. Harry doesn’t know what to say or do with Malfoy, so he hopes that ignoring him and simply taking notes on one of the books on their desk will suffice.

Thankfully Malfoy doesn’t mention what happened over the weekend. Maybe he never even noticed Harry in the first place. It’s not impossible that Harry could have miscast the spell to make the wall go clear—he might’ve said the incantation wrong, and Malfoy wouldn’t have seen him standing there at all. Probably he was just looking at an empty wall, and Harry completely overreacted by bolting out of the room like that.

But that still doesn’t change the fact that both conversations he had with Astoria were truly, astonishingly real.

He’d put them in his Pensieve last night, still struck by her openness with him. Funnily enough, he finds that he likes her quite a lot. It’s a shame she’s married to Malfoy or they might have gotten along well.

But she _is_ married to Malfoy, and on top of that she’s enabling Harry to have sex with him. Which really, absolutely is something he shouldn’t want… but apparently he does anyway. Ugh.

Maybe he should punch Malfoy again, just to get all of this pent up tension out of his system. No, actually—Malfoy should punch Harry, because then Harry could have an excuse to get angry. And then he wouldn’t want to fuck Malfoy anymore. Right?

Malfoy shifts beside him, turning a page in the book he’s holding, and his knee very lightly knocks against Harry’s. Then Malfoy looks up at him, his gaze catching on Harry’s, and time stops as they lock eyes.

Possibly years later, Malfoy clears his throat. “Was it real?” he asks quietly.

“Was what real?” Harry asks. He _thinks_ Malfoy’s talking about what happened at Bentley’s, but he’s not sure—

Malfoy’s lips thin. “Never mind,” he says, turning back to his book.

“Wait—” Harry starts.

“I said _never mind_.”

Harry lets it go.

The rest of his day is exceedingly normal, if by normal he means being bored to tears while attempting to skim more texts about Death. He thought this would be cathartic, thought it would give him _purpose_. Instead he feels the most aimless he’s felt since he joined the Unspeakables in the first place.

They’re supposed to sit here and research for _two months_.

He’s disappointed. It’s growing more and more clear that this is absolutely not the department he wants to be working in for the rest of his life. He hopes to Merlin that Prophecy is more interesting. He hasn’t even thought ahead to a third choice.

Several days of boredom later, he realizes Malfoy is no longer reading books about death.

“What’s that?” Harry asks, even though he swore recently to redouble his efforts on ignoring Malfoy. It never really works.

“A book,” Malfoy says curtly.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I’m just asking a bloody question.”

“Well you can keep your bloody questions to _yourself_.”

Harry glares at him, and then he makes an attempt to snatch the book away from Malfoy, resulting in a silent tussle as they both pull at it while attempting not to alert the other Unspeakables to the fact that they’re quarrelling. 

Eventually Harry succeeds in pulling the book away, quickly turning so that Malfoy can’t reach it, except Malfoy still reaches for it anyway and then—

And then somehow Malfoy is pressed all up against Harry’s back, breath hot on his neck, and Harry can’t help it—he shudders.

“Hmm?” Malfoy hums lightly in his ear.

It takes all of Harry’s concentration to flip the book over and actually read the title—something about curse-breaking. “Have your bloody book back,” he says, trying to turn to hand the book to him and expecting Malfoy to move away.

Except he miscalculated, because Malfoy _doesn’t_ move and now their faces are entirely too close, Malfoy leaning on his shoulder and fuck, _fuck_.

Slowly, without moving away, Malfoy reaches over and takes the book back, setting it on the desk. His chest is warm on Harry’s shoulder, firm through their robes, and God, Harry wants to _touch_. Especially when Malfoy looks at him again, so fucking close that he can see the specks of silver in his eyes. 

“ _Interesting_ ,” Malfoy says, drawing the word out, and fuck, he knows, doesn’t he? That Harry wants to fuck him?

It takes every ounce of Harry’s self-control to push Malfoy off of him, to go back to ignoring him just like before.

He’s aware now more than ever of just how close he is to breaking his resolve, to reaching out and touching him.

\--

Draco makes it all the way home and through dinner with Astoria before he can’t take it any longer.

He heads to his bathroom and strips off his clothes, turning on the shower as hot as he can stand. Then he slicks up his hand with lube that’s spelled temporarily waterproof and takes his cock in hand. 

He’s already so fucking hard. Merlin, he’d _barely_ touched Potter, but Potter had looked like he _wanted_ him and fuck, Draco wants him back so fucking much he nearly can’t stand it.

He strokes himself, daydreaming of what it would’ve been like to spell a Notice-Me-Not over their desk corner, climb into Potter’s lap, and snog him senseless. On second thought, he doesn’t really want to have sex in their dusty Death department office, so maybe he’d Apparate Potter to the Manor—or Potter would Apparate Draco to Potter’s flat, he supposes, since he’s not sure how Astoria would feel about Draco having a man over. The Manor certainly wouldn’t take kindly to it, and now that he thinks about it, Potter would probably hate the Manor too. 

So Potter would Apparate them to his flat, and Draco would spell their clothes off and get inside him as quickly as he could—he could have him on the sofa, or even up against the wall, Merlin. Or—or maybe Potter would fuck him instead, and Draco would—fuck, Draco would fucking love that, having Potter’s cock in him.

He bites his lip, mind whirling with lust, and reaches outside the shower for his wand so he can Summon the one dildo he owns. It’d been sort of a prank gift from Astoria actually, for their wedding day. She then made him promise under no circumstances to tell her what he ended up using it for, which suits him just fine.

He turns around in the spray of the water, tipping more lube into his hand and slicking up the slender length of the dildo, only growing harder as his fingers move over the ridges at the head. It’s just small enough that he can put it in himself without prep if he’s careful, so he leans over and braces himself with one arm on the shower wall, taking a breath as he positions the dildo behind him. Then, when he feels the tip nudging at his arsehole, he slowly pushes, working it inside himself and hissing at the burn.

He imagines what would happen if Potter was watching him do _this_ , watching as he picks up his wand and spells the dildo so it’ll continue rocking inside him, groaning as he adjusts the spell _just so_ and the dildo begins sliding against his prostate with every thrust. He shuts his eyes and palms his cock and imagines Potter pulling the dildo out of him, stepping behind him in the spray of the water and replacing it with his cock instead. Fuck, he’s _seen_ Potter’s cock too, all thick and slightly curved and gorgeous, he wants, he _wants_ —

He comes all over the shower wall, shuddering, and is horrified when a low _Potter_ escapes his mouth.

He pulls the dildo out and sets it outside the shower. Then he stands in the spray and shuts his eyes, willing the water to wash away this terrible, all-consuming need to touch Potter. 

But of course it doesn’t. Unbidden, an image flashes into his mind of Potter lying underneath him. “ _I love you_ ,” he said.

Draco’s throat burns.

After that he hurriedly finishes washing himself, bolting out of the shower to towel himself dry. He can’t even _relax_ without thinking about Potter now, it seems. He thought that getting fucked at Bentley’s would help him forget, but then there was that vision of Potter in the window, and now it’s even _worse_.

He starts getting dressed in his lounge robes, but halfway through he starts getting the odd, acrid sensation that something is _off_. Alarmed, he finishes putting his clothes on, mentally testing the Manor wards—but nothing is out of place, as it would be if someone were trying to encroach on them.

He walks out of his room, moving quickly now. Nothing is amiss in the dining room or the large kitchen—the stove and oven are both off. He looks through the entryway, but there’s nothing of interest in there, and the rest of the Manor he doesn’t even bother checking. He’d blocked off all of the other rooms years ago so he didn’t have to think about the horrors they once held.

His heart stops as he realizes he’d forgotten to check one room—Astoria’s.

Pulse racing, he walks briskly back down the hall, pushing open the door to her room—

And finds Astoria lying on the floor unconscious.

\--

Malfoy is even more prickly than usual at work the next day, and Harry wonders if it was because of the touching. He tries to ignore it, but Malfoy is being even more of a pain than usual, shooting Harry glares every time Harry so much as shifts in his chair.

Finally, after another glare and a passive-aggressive huff when Harry tries to stretch, Harry’s had enough. He mutters a _Muffliato_. “What,” he snaps, “is your problem?”

“None of your business,” Malfoy tries to mutter.

But Harry shakes his head tightly. “Just fucking tell me.”

“If you _must_ know,” Malfoy says, his voice laced with venom, “My wife was admitted to St. Mungo’s last night. So if you could stop making _noise_ every five seconds—”

“Astoria’s in the hospital?” Harry asks, immediately concerned. Then he remembers—he’s not really supposed to know Astoria, is he? 

Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up, and his glare somehow grows darker. “I wasn’t _aware_ you were acquainted.”

“We, er,” Harry says. “We met while shopping recently.”

“Shopping,” Malfoy says, and all of the blood drains out of his face.

“What?” Harry asks, wondering if he said something wrong.

“She… she’s not supposed to leave the Manor,” Malfoy says, and now he’s shutting his book and standing up in a hurry. “Anything could interact with—fuck, I’ve got to go talk to the Healers—”

He doesn’t even make it out of the room before he Disapparates with a crack, leaving Harry and the other Unspeakables staring at the empty space where he’d just been.

\--

Astoria is awake by the time Draco makes it to her hospital room, looking exhausted but alert nonetheless. It seems she’s already told the Healers about her outing, which honestly kind of infuriates him because she hadn’t seen fit to tell Draco earlier, but he goes to her bedside nonetheless.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me you’d gone shopping?” Draco asks, taking a seat next to her bed, trying to calm his own racing heart. “You could’ve told me what you needed!”

“Sometimes I like to go out on my own,” Astoria says obstinately. “I’m your wife, not your captive, you know.”

Draco frowns at her. “I’m not trying to keep you fucking _captive_ , you know that—I’m just trying to keep you safe! Anything out there could trigger your curse and—and make it worse, or—”

Astoria cuts him off with a long sigh. “I know,” she says quietly. “It’s just. I’m lonely, Draco.”

Oh. Draco stares at her. “But Daphne…”

“Yes, Daph visits sometimes, but it’s not nearly enough.” She shrugs half-heartedly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Draco suddenly feeling guilty for snapping at her. “I’m sorry,” he says, and she waves off his apology. “No, really. But—but I’ve been doing more research on your condition lately, did I tell you? Maybe I’ll be able to find something soon, something that’ll make it easier for you to go out.”

“I’d like that,” Astoria says, a small smile on her lips, and he resolves to search even harder for some sort of clue now that he has access to the Unspeakable archives. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Draco shrugs, wishing not for the first time that he could tell her what workplace was like—namely that it’s boring as fuck and also ridiculously annoying because he’s been forced to sit next to Potter for a whole two months, working on basically nothing. But he’s not allowed to say either of those things. “I doubt they’ll miss me at the moment.”

“If you say so,” Astoria says, leaning back against the pillows.

Then Draco looks at her and slowly starts putting two and two together—the impromptu shopping trip, Potter mentioning her name… “Astoria?”

“Yes?”

“My… coworker… mentioned he saw you yesterday. While you were out shopping.” 

Almost imperceptibly, Astoria’s eyes widen. “Oh, really?”

She’s hiding something.

Draco frowns at her. “You didn’t go looking for him on purpose, did you?”

Slowly, Astoria gives him a one-armed shrug. “It’s a possibility.”

Fuck. She always has been far too interested in his feelings for her own good—but he hates that with a bloody passion, because whatever moods he’s in are absolutely not worth risking fucking up her health for. 

He takes a deep breath in through his nose. He doesn’t want to be short with her, but in this case he can’t help it. “Why would you _do_ that? It doesn’t fucking matter.” It doesn’t matter, especially when it’s _Potter_ , and for a moment he has to work to fight back the anger that bubbles up behind his clenched teeth.

“It _does_ matter,” she says stubbornly, and now her eyes are fierce. “Because for the first time in literally all of the time we’ve been married, my husband came home and said he had sex with someone. And you _never_ do things for yourself, Draco—you always come straight home to tend to me, and I just. I just wish you would let yourself live, you know?”

Draco frowns at her. “Letting myself live doesn’t mean—I don’t know, having sex with someone who was literally my rival in school! And anyway, what do you mean? I let myself live! My life is fine.”

“It’s _not_ , Draco, and you never _listen_ to me,” Astoria says, furrowing her brow. “You use me to distract yourself so you don’t have to _think_. And that’s not going to work forever.”

“I do not,” Draco grumbles. “Anyway, of course we have time. I’m going to find your cure, and it’ll be _fine_.”

But then something in Astoria’s expression makes him stop.

“What? What is it?” he asks, eyeing the way her expression has gone all shuttered.

She closes her eyes briefly. “I meant to tell you later, but I suppose now is as good of a time as any. The Healers… When you were gone, see, they informed me that the effects of the curse are growing more severe.”

“Fuck,” Draco swears, fighting against the alarm that wants to spiral in his chest. “Did they say if that changes how—how long we have?”

“No. They said all they knew was that it was far more advanced than it was last time I had a check-up,” she tells him, looking tired. “To be honest… I’ve felt it growing worse for a while.”

“And you didn’t _tell_ me,” Draco says, starting to grow agitated again.

“Because you always worry!” Astoria says, but the effort to shout is too much for her and she begins to cough. Draco looks around for the button to summon the Mediwitch, but she waves him off, stopping her fit soon after. “You always worry too much,” she says, her voice hoarser now. “This is what I mean—you consume yourself with my illness, and you don’t leave room for anything else.”

Draco wants to argue, but there’s a little piece inside of him that’s starting to realize that maybe she’s right. He thinks back over the past few years. Sometimes he barely sleeps when he thinks he’s onto something that could help her, even though it never really pans out. He threw himself into the Unspeakable program without a second thought when one of the Curse Breakers said it might be worth a shot, even though it’s well known as one of the most grueling programs in the Ministry.

But Astoria’s his _wife_. Isn’t this what he’s supposed to be doing? “We’re _married_ ,” he says. “And—and I care for you. It’s only right.”

“Draco,” she says firmly. “I appreciate all you do for me, really, I do. But listen. I’m only going to say this once—you use me to occupy yourself so you never have to face what happened during the war.”

“That’s preposterous—” Draco starts, but she shakes her head.

“No. It’s _not_. You use me so you don’t have to think about what you did, or—no, let me finish,” she says when he tries to interrupt. “You use me so you don’t have to think about your past, or how other people look at you now, or about how much you loathe yourself, and—and do you know how much that pains me? I adore you, but you _need_ to stop using me as a crutch.”

Draco stares at her, dumbfounded. “What… even if that were to be true—which, it’s _not_ —what’s wrong with it? It takes a lot of time to research what’s going on with you—it’s all productive, obviously, and isn’t that what matters? I _am_ doing something with my life.”

Astoria gives an exasperated sigh. “Look,” she says, and stares him down. “I’m going to die, Draco. I’m going to die, maybe sooner, maybe later, and what would you do if I died right now?” 

A lump forms hard and painful in Draco’s throat at the very thought. “I… You’re not, right? You’re not going to die soon, you still have time—”

“Answer the question.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Draco clasps his hands against his chin and thinks about it. “I’d mourn,” he says truthfully. He can’t imagine life without Astoria. He doesn’t even know if he’d want to go to work, or do anything at all, really. He would just want to sit around at home. “Maybe sell the Manor,” he adds, because honestly he can’t imagine staying there alone for the rest of his life. The only reason Mother was able to convince him to keep it for now is because the wards offer special protections for Malfoys who reside there, meaning it’s safer for Astoria.

“Is that all?” Astoria says, sounding pained.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco says stubbornly. “You’re not dying—we’ll find a solution somehow—”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Astoria says, beginning to look truly angry. “The point is that you are my best fucking friend and I am _not_ going to let you waste your entire life on me under the pretense of our fake fucking marriage.”

Draco stills, mouth falling open slightly. Never before has Astoria so much raised her voice at him. He shakes his head. “I don’t even know if I’m capable of—of doing other things,” he admits, looking away. He never realized—he never _realized_ that for years, really, the only thing he’s done is attempt to find her a cure.

“Then start with Potter,” Astoria says quietly. “He makes you feel things.”

Oh, fucking Potter _again_ —“Astoria, listen,” he says firmly. “When we… when I slept with Potter, it was a complete accident, okay? We inadvertently dosed ourselves with Amortentia. So there’s _nothing_ between us, and it’s never going to happen again.”

“Oh,” Astoria says, sounding surprised. “Is that… is that really it? No wonder you were so—agitated, after.”

Draco nods tightly. “It was a mistake. That’s all.”

“So what, you still hate him?” Astoria asks, looking as if she’s disappointed. 

But she has no right to be. It’s not her place to meddle.

“Yes, of course I do,” Draco says, and maybe it’s just the teeniest bit of a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that. He pushes thoughts of wanking to Potter as far away as possible, along with thoughts of Potter’s skin against his, of wanting to rip his robes open in the middle of the Death department. They’re just fleeting fantasies of his. They don’t mean anything.

Astoria gives him a look that says she doesn’t fully believe him, but sighs, shrugging. “Well, even if you hate him… that’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asks, furrowing his brow. “It’s not _fun_ , you know.”

“Are you sure?” Astoria says, and he flushes. Okay, sometimes he enjoys making fun of Potter in the papers, and sometimes he goes on talking about him a little more than he really should. But that was _before_ they’d fought again, before they slept together.

Which. Arguably that makes it worse probably, because now his obsession has only grown.

He sighs. “Even if you have a point, it’s ridiculous to try to engage with him. He hates me as much as I loathe him.”

“Well, it didn’t seem like that when I told him he should sleep with you,” Astoria says without preamble, and Draco nearly falls out of his chair.

“Wait, you said what? _Why?_ ” Draco stares at her incredulously, suddenly feeling all warm at the thought of Potter maybe someday walking up and—no, no. It’s not going to happen. Even if Astoria keeps muddling around in their affairs, the chance that Potter would actually make a move on him again are incredibly low—heated looks in the middle of work be damned.

“Draco. Honestly,” Astoria says. “You’ve gone all red. You can want him even if you do hate him. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know?”

Draco groans. Fuck. “Whatever. It’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see,” Astoria says airily. “He didn’t seem so terribly opposed.”

“The Manor won’t look kindly on it anyway,” Draco tries for another excuse, even though he wants to press for more details about what exactly Potter said. But he won’t allow himself. “We _are_ married, technically. There are rules. Sleeping around is fine, but anything more serious…”

“I suppose that’s true,” Astoria says, an odd look appearing in her eyes, but then she yawns and he chalks it up to tiredness.

Draco waits a beat. Still, the question gnaws at him, the one that he shouldn’t ask, but then he caves and asks anyway. “What… what did he say? When you told him that he should… sleep with me.”

Astoria grins. “You _do_ want him.”

“Shut up,” Draco mutters, and she laughs softly.

“Well, good,” she says. “You won’t be mad at me then.”

Draco stares at her, slowly growing suspicious. “What did you do?”

“Mm,” she says, “On second thought, it might be more fun if he tells you.”

“ _Astoria_ ,” he says imploringly, but she just shakes her head and laughs.

“Nope. I’ve decided I won’t tell you,” she says. “Now, would you do me a favor and go back to work? I really am very tired.”

“Okay, okay,” he agrees, standing and stretching. “Just. Be more careful, please?”

“I will,” Astoria says, yawning. “And Draco—I’m glad we talked.”

“Me too,” Draco says, and in an atypical show of affection, he leans over and kisses her forehead.

She makes a face at him. “Gross,” she says, pretending to wipe it off and laughing. “But listen—I’ll be okay, Draco. You have to know that.”

“I do know,” he says after a moment.

“Okay,” Astoria says, nodding slowly. “Good.”

He leaves and goes back to work. 

Which, unfortunately, means going back to Potter. 

Potter asks after Astoria, and Draco merely grunts and says that she’s fine. Truly, he’s itching to ask Potter what on earth Astoria was hinting at earlier, but he forces himself to wait because really, he’s still not sure about what he wants from Potter. 

Yes, he’s attracted to him, unfortunately very much so. But the fact still stands that Potter isn’t someone he _enjoys_ being around. Potter drives him mad, with his righteousness and his Gryffindorness and his stupid messy hair. Not to mention that right now he still kind of wants Potter naked in the middle of the department, and talking rather exacerbates that, which wouldn’t do at all. So he’ll wait until another day when he’s sorted his thoughts out more, thank you very much.

For reasons he’s not sure of, he feels lighter now. Maybe it’s because of his talk with Astoria. He’s still rather bored, but it’s at least more interesting to read about curses than it is to read drab books about Death, so the afternoon goes by quicker than usual, to his relief.

Briefly, he thinks about what she said to him earlier—that he’s using her as some sort of crutch. That he’s doing everything he can to avoid thinking about the war.

He thinks of the closed off parts of the Manor, then thinks too of the closed off parts of himself—even to this day, he won’t go to Diagon alone, as the snide words and hexes hurled behind his back make him want to scream. So he stays in and gets their groceries through owl order—to save more time for research on Astoria, he tells himself—and… oh. 

He has to concede that maybe she’s not that far off the mark. 

But what else is he supposed to do when he can barely walk out in public without getting called a Death Eater? Everything reminds him of the war, even now, everything and everyone except Astoria.

So if he buries himself in research to avoid it all, isn’t that okay?

It’s funny, he never used to have a selfless bone in his body. But things change when you’ve been on the losing side of a war, he supposes. Astoria helped him rebuild his name, enough to be able to get a job again, and he’ll be forever grateful to her for that. Even more than that, though, she helped him feel human again, gave him something to focus on other than his damned self-pity.

She _was_ right, wasn’t she?

It’s not an enjoyable realization to come to.

When the end of the workday finally comes, he Apparates straight to Mungo’s, planning on taking supper in Astoria’s room. He hopes she’ll only need to stay a night or two, now that she’s awake, although he assumes they’ll want to run more tests on her before she leaves.

But when he rounds the corner and walks into her hospital room, he finds it empty, the bed stripped of its sheets.

He stares at it, not understanding. Had she gone home without him? Worried now, he steps back out, double-checking the room number. But no, it’s the right one.

“Mr. Malfoy?” a young Mediwitch gets his attention from behind him, one he remembers from when Astoria was admitted.

“Yes,” he says, “Do you know where Astoria’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, sir, all I know is that she was discharged a couple of hours ago.” The witch fumbles in her pocket. “She did tell me to give you this, though.” She hands him a small roll of parchment.

“Oh,” he says, “Thank you.”

“I’ll have to ask you to leave the patient area now, I’m afraid,” the Mediwitch says, and he nods and heads out of the hospital, walking through the Muggle entrance and sitting down on a nearby bench as he contemplates the scroll she’d given him.

He opens it up, and then his heart drops, because the first thing he sees is Astoria’s wedding ring, neatly charmed to the top of the parchment, oh Merlin—

His hand shakes as he takes the ring, slipping it into his pocket, and then looks at the words written in her loopy handwriting, terrified of what they might say.

 _Dear Draco_ , she begins.

_I apologize sincerely for doing this by letter, but I was afraid that I may change my mind if I had to do it in person. You’ve always done a good job of convincing me to see your side, but I’m afraid this time, I need to stand firm in my convictions._

_I am divorcing you. Not because I don’t love you (though I’m not in love with you – we both know this). It’s mostly because I do love you, and because I want your happiness nearly as much as my own. _

_You will not let yourself be happy with me._

_I don’t think that’s something you’re even aware of. I think you believe yourself content, Draco, but I believe that if you think back, you’ll find that the times when you were truly happy as of late have been far and few between._

_I suppose there’s something to be said for the fact that I do not wish to live in that house of yours for the rest of my life, but truly, I am not leaving you out of any sense of displeasure. I greatly appreciate our friendship and I do hope it will remain whole even after this._

_Because I know you will worry, I’ll tell you of my current plans: I am going to be leaving England, likely for several months. The Healers here recommended a retreat of sorts in France that may help ease my condition for the time being. I’m afraid the curse is getting to the stage where I will need to be supervised fairly constantly in case something happens, and I don’t want to trouble you or my family with that. There’s a chance the treatments at the retreat may even help. I do hope so._

_You can reach me by letter if you like, although I will be cross with you if I feel you are spending too much time worrying about me instead of living your life. I meant what I said earlier today – I’ll be okay. And you will too._

_I’ve already collected my things from the Manor. Please sell it, your parents’ desires be damned. Your mother doesn’t live there anymore and your father is still in Azkaban. That drafty house is only weighing you down._

_Please sign the divorce papers when they arrive. I’ve given a discreet statement to a reporter I trust at the Prophet for when time comes._

_Keep me updated on Potter as well, assuming you’re not horrendously angry with me. Even if you just end up punching each other again (I did see that bruise before you healed it, by the way)._

_I know this may seem insane to you, but truly it is something I’ve thought about for a long time. Our marriage was never real in the first place, and it was never truly meant to last, not like we were forcing it to. I will miss you terribly, but we will be fine._

_xoxo your ex-wife (ha! how strange) and best friend, Astoria_

Draco stares at the paper. Then he reads it again, just to be sure.

When he’s done reading it the second time, he’s surprised that the ink has somehow gone all splotchy in places, and when he reaches a hand up he realizes there’s wetness on his cheeks.

He’s not sure of the last time he cried.

What…? What’s happening?

Fuck. _Fuck_.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Astoria… she won’t be at home waiting for him, will she?

He’ll be alone, and he won’t have anything to occupy himself with, and—and this is what she meant, isn’t it? When she said it was a bad thing that he’d become obsessed with her illness?

He’s absolutely fucking aimless without her.

Suddenly it feels like there’s a giant hole in his chest.

He’s not in love with her. He never was. But it still _hurts_ that she’s leaving him, hurts so badly he can barely breathe.

As his lungs grasp for air, one thought surfaces in his mind, above all the panic and the worry and the sadness.

Potter.

This is all Potter’s fucking fault, isn’t it?

Suddenly he’s angry. Angry at himself, angry at Astoria, but mostly angry at Potter for fucking up the status quo, for making Astoria think that for some reason things should be different, for, for—

He stands up and does something extremely dangerous, Apparating to Potter’s flat without being sure of where it is. But somehow he lands in one piece, right in the middle of Potter’s sitting room, and there’s Potter, sitting on the couch, looking at him in horror.

“ _You_ ,” Draco snarls, and then before he knows it he’s going for Potter’s throat.

Potter dodges with admittedly fast reflexes, rolling to the side and making a grab for one of Draco’s arms. “What the _fuck_ , Malfoy?”

“You fucking _arsehole_ ,” he says, trying to swing at Potter again, but Potter manages to grab onto his arm and hold him back. He wrenches out of Potter’s grip. “It’s all your _fault_.”

“I don’t even know what you’re fucking talking about!” Potter shouts, and now _he’s_ getting angry, swinging a punch of his own at Draco.

Draco doesn’t even dodge. He just lets the punch hit him, savoring the sudden pain of Potter’s knuckles against his mouth, the taste of blood. Maybe if he lets Potter beat him up, he won’t feel so fucking _sad_.

But Potter stops after that one punch. “What… what are you doing?” he asks, staring at him, aghast.

Draco wipes his mouth and his hand comes away with blood. “I have no fucking idea,” he says roughly.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

Before Potter can say one thing more, Draco Apparates away to keep himself from doing something even more stupid.

Like kissing him.

As if.

He lands at the Manor.

He walks immediately to Astoria’s room. It’s still a surprise to see it empty of all her things, even though she said it was so, and he gets the brief urge to go back and start punching Potter again. 

Thankfully this time he sees sense and doesn’t.

Instead he walks to his own room and begins angrily Summoning all of his belongings. He Transfigures a couple of spare mugs into boxes, shrinking all of his things and haphazardly packing them away.

Astoria was right. He hates this fucking Manor.

He nearly starts crying again as he finishes packing, because what if—what if he never sees her again? What if she doesn’t _want_ to see him when she gets back, or—or even worse, what if she grows worse and dies while she’s away? He doesn’t think he could _bear_ that—the thought makes him so miserable he wants to vomit.

She’s his _best friend_.

She’s the only person he’s willingly told he loved them besides Mother in his whole fucking life. He hadn’t even told Pansy that, even though they were close for literally all of his childhood.

And now Astoria’s simply gone.

He never expected for the end of his sham of a marriage to hurt this much—mostly because he never expected it to end, _period_.

It’s Potter’s fault, he reminds himself. Astoria left because she thinks that, what, Draco could somehow be happy if he let himself be with Potter? That he could fall in _love_ with him? What a fucking joke.

He angrily finishes packing his belongings. And then he goes around the Manor and shrinks the furniture he uses regularly too, like his bed and the dining table, and packs them away with the rest.

Then he Levitates his things and walks out of the Manor for the last time.


	2. Love

Harry is both annoyed and confused as he walks into the Death department the next morning, as usual skirting as far around the dais as possible. He’s annoyed because Malfoy showed up in his living room last night and actually tried to fight him; he’s confused Malfoy was _blaming_ him for something, and despite racking his brain for hours before finally falling asleep, he has no clue as to _what_.

But as he heads toward their shared desk, he’s shocked to see that he barely recognizes the Malfoy in front of him.

Malfoy looks exhausted. His skin is pale, he has rings under his eyes, and he hasn’t even healed his lip from when Harry punched him last night. Harry thinks he might even be wearing the same robes as the day before, which is something he’s never known Malfoy to do. Ever.

Before Harry can speak, Malfoy looks up at him and says, in a listless voice, “I’m sorry.”

Harry blinks. “What _happened_ to you?” he asks, caught off guard as he sits down and throws up a _Muffliato_. Malfoy doesn’t _apologize_. It’s stupid to ask what happened though, probably—Malfoy will just give him another ‘it’s none of your business,’ just as he usually does.

But instead Malfoy shrinks into himself and says, “Astoria left me.”

“Oh,” Harry says, stunned. He’s not really sure what to say. “Er… I’m so sorry.”

Malfoy just shrugs.

Harry swallows. “This might be rude, but, erm. She mentioned at one point that you two weren’t really—a couple, I suppose?”

Malfoy stares down at the desk. “No,” he says. “Not at all. But… she was my best friend.”

Harry thinks of how it would feel if Ron or Hermione were to leave him and his stomach immediately turns. He understands. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Really.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy says, but there’s no emotion in it.

“D’you…” Harry starts, feeling strange and nervous. “D’you wanna leave? I mean, if I were you I wouldn’t want to be here right now…”

“Where the bloody hell would I go?” Malfoy asks him drily.

“To… I don’t know, a friend’s place, maybe?”

Malfoy scoffs. “I haven’t spoken to my old school friends in years.” He makes an odd face, one Harry can’t begin to interpret.

“Oh,” Harry says, looking down at the desk. Then he looks at Malfoy again, at how his expression is so, so tired. “Come on,” he says, standing.

“What?” Malfoy asks, but Harry merely tugs at his sleeve, pulling him up too.

“We’re going out,” Harry tells Hughes as they walk past. He’s not even sure if Hughes hears him, as the old man doesn’t look up, seeming completely absorbed in his manuscript. Ah well. Harry tried.

“Wait—Potter, where are we _going?_ ” Malfoy asks as they walk away, out into the dais room.

“I dunno,” Harry says. “Just not here.” Then he spares one glance at the dais before grabbing Malfoy’s arm and Apparating them to the first place he can think of—his flat.

Malfoy wrinkles his nose. “I don’t really want to be _here_ either,” he says, staring over at the couch with mild horror.

Right. They’d _done_ things here. Harry suppresses an odd shiver.

“Well, have you got any other ideas?” he asks, slowly starting to realize how bonkers this is.

“Not really,” Malfoy mutters.

“We could go to your place,” Harry offers.

Malfoy frowns. “I no longer have a home,” he says, and then instead of explaining what he means by that, he stalks out of the room, heading over to sit at Harry’s kitchen table.

Well, that works, then.

After a moment of indecision, Harry pulls out a chair and sits down with him. Then he aims his wand at the kettle sitting on the stove, Levitating it so it can fill itself from the faucet, then setting it back on the stove to boil.

“No sugar,” Malfoy says, when Harry offers him a cuppa and the sugar bowl. “But I’ll take cream.”

They sit in silence for a while, sipping at their tea. Malfoy keeps shooting him furtive glances, and finally Harry looks up at him and asks, “What?”

“I blame you for Astoria leaving,” Malfoy says. “I suppose you should know.”

Harry squints at him, thoroughly surprised. “Why? I barely know her.”

“Because she wasn’t talking about leaving before you and I fucked,” Malfoy says, his face growing all pinched.

Privately, Harry thinks that sounds like a shit reason. He’s about to say so, except then Malfoy speaks again.

“And because…” he starts, looking wilted like a plant without water—“Because it’s easier than blaming myself.”

It’s more honesty than Harry had been expecting. He plays with the handle of his teacup, shifting it back and forth over the surface of the table. “Was it bad—I mean, did you fight or anything?”

“Not really,” Malfoy says. “We talked about some things earlier yesterday, but she seemed rather normal. And then I returned to the hospital after work, and she was gone. She left me a letter.”

Harry slowly nods. It’s probably good for Malfoy to talk about this, he reasons—the mind needs to process and all that, Hermione might say—so he asks another question. “Why was she in the hospital?”

Malfoy closes his eyes. “She’s ill,” he says, opening them again. “She has a familial blood curse. Incurable. And it’s killing her.”

Oh. Merlin. “That’s awful,” Harry says, aghast. “I didn’t know.”

Malfoy simply shrugs. “It is what it is.”

Harry’s not quite sure what to do with this quiet, reserved version of Malfoy, nor with all the information he’s just been given. They lapse into silence, and when Malfoy finishes his tea, he stands up.

“I should be leaving,” he says, looking as if he feels uncomfortable just to be here. Which could easily be true, Harry thinks, eyes straying toward the living room.

“Okay,” Harry says. “You know… if you’re looking for something to get your mind off things for a little while, the Love department isn’t bad to visit. I go after work sometimes. It’s… calming. Though, I suppose it depends on the scent of the Amortentia at the moment,” he adds, wrinkling his nose as he thinks back to when they’d been dosed with it.

Malfoy looks a bit surprised, but he nods. “Thanks, I suppose,” he says.

Then he leaves.

Harry doesn’t really know what to do after that, so he simply goes back to work.

\--

Potter finds him standing at the fountain late that night.

Draco’s been restless all fucking day. First he tried to go back to the hotel room he rented the night before, but that felt too depressing, so he contemplated going to some shoddy bar and getting a drink. But then he looked at the clock and realized it was still eleven in the morning, and getting drunk at eleven in the morning sounded even _more_ depressing than being cooped up at the hotel, so he decided both options were terrible.

Instead he went to see about renting a flat.

It wasn’t hard—his family doesn’t have all the money they used to have before the war, seeing as a substantial part of their estate was taken for reparations, but he has enough of a monthly budget to get him a comfortable flat in London. It’s different, he thinks, as he tours it and looks out its windows into the streets of the city. Different from the Manor. But it’s not terrible.

He writes Mother but doesn’t immediately send the letter, debating on whether or not he should tell her he’s getting divorced and just left the Manor at all. Eventually he does send it. He’s not selling the Manor, not quite yet. In the unlikely chance his father ever leaves Azkaban, he’ll need somewhere to return to, and Draco would be surprised if Father settled for his Mother’s small flat in the Wizarding community of Reading.

He doesn’t receive a response for several hours, and when he finally does receive an owl, the note from his mother is brief. She doesn’t seem cross with him at the very least. However, she does threaten him into sending her his new address, which he does with haste.

Finally after hours of paperwork and a trip to Gringotts and back, the flat is in his name. He unpacks, restlessness itching under his skin, and when he’s done he immediately leaves the flat, walking down the street to who knows where. It begins to drizzle. He’s too exhausted to cast an _Impervius_ , so he lets himself slowly get wet, wandering down the street as he contemplates the new changes in his life.

Astoria always knew what was best for him—even when he didn’t know it himself. And maybe that’s still true. Not that it feels like it right now, but he’ll simply have to trust her, he supposes.

Even if it fucking sucks.

He’s surprised that he’s not angry anymore. Honestly, he’s not feeling much of anything. That’s a good thing, right? That has to be a good thing. He debates drafting a letter to Astoria but decides to leave that for another day, one when he doesn’t feel quite so dead inside.

He stops in at a small café. It’s Muggle, or at least it seems so by the odd looks he gets from people staring at his robes. He briefly panics when he realizes he doesn’t have any Muggle money on him, slipping his hand into his pocket to discreetly cast the Coin-Conversion Charm on a handful of Galleons. The cashier looks surprised to be handed several dollar coins but thankfully doesn’t comment, handing him his coffee and croissant without fuss.

Draco eats even though he’s not hungry, watching the Muggles lounge or socialize around him. Many of them are using devices he thinks are called computers, but these are smaller than he’s seen before, shaped like a chair with no arms or legs. It’s so odd that they can stare at these things for so long without getting bored—Draco thinks he’d get far too restless.

By the time he walks outside again, the sun is starting to set. He thinks of Potter’s earlier words, debates following his advice for a moment, and then finally decides to head to the Ministry after all.

Then he makes his way to the Love department.

The moment he steps inside, calmness floods his mind, and he thinks he understands what Potter was saying. He hasn’t returned here since the time they fought, and that time he didn’t have the luxury of relaxing and letting the energy in the room soothe him. 

But now it’s warm and quiet, the charmed windows all around the large chamber showing the sun as it goes down, setting the room ablaze with the warm colors of a sunset.

He walks over to the fountain, and for a brief moment, he smells Astoria’s scent so strongly he whips around, thinking she’s there behind him. 

But no, it’s simply the Amortentia, and after a few seconds her smell fades to a more manageable level, replaced with the smell of the Hogwarts Quidditch field and the pastries Mother used to make at Christmas.

He shuts his eyes and just breathes.

And that’s where Potter finds him, standing silently at the fountain.

“I wondered if you’d come,” Potter says, walking up next to him.

Draco still doesn’t really feel like talking right now, so he shrugs. Thankfully Potter shuts up and just stands there beside him, which suits Draco just fine, because he can nearly ignore Potter if he stops making noise.

But then a noise makes them both jump, and it’s not coming from Potter—instead, it’s the sharp clicking of heels as someone joins them in the chamber.

“Back to the scene of the crime, hmm?” says Head Unspeakable Adams, and Draco swears internally—he was hoping their incident with the fountain had gone unnoticed. The stern expression on Adams’ face says otherwise.

He sneaks a glance at Potter’s face and sees that Potter looks just as guilty. Good.

“It was just a mistake—” Draco starts, but Adams gives him a severe look and he clamps his mouth shut.

“Save the excuses for someone who will believe them,” Adams says, and Draco resists the urge to shrink away from her tone. “It’s a wonder you two didn’t damage the fountain.”

“We’re sorry,” Potter says, and Draco bites back a quip at how inadequate that apology is and simply nods along.

“What’s done is done,” Adams says. “Next time you two want to dose yourselves with Amortentia, do it _without_ potentially damaging the fountain.”

Both of them nod, and she turns and begins walking out of the hall.

“She can’t be serious,” Potter mumbles. “Who would dose themselves on purpose?”

“You berk, of course she’s not,” Draco mutters back.

But it seems Adams wasn’t entirely out of earshot, because she turns around again, eyebrows raised. “Serious about what? The Amortentia? It’s not off-limits, at least not to Unspeakables. Why would it be? If anyone from the department is idiotic enough to take it after hours, at least we can study the effects later.” 

Then she does leave the room, and Draco stares along with Potter at the door as it closes.

“Huh. Wouldn’t have thought,” Potter says.

“Of course. Because you never think,” Draco says drily.

He’s not expecting Potter to smile at him.

“What?” Draco snaps, feeling horrified.

“Oh, er—I just thought that you must be feeling a bit better, if you were making fun of me,” Potter says.

Draco aims a glare at him, because he’s _not_ feeling better. He feels like shit, empty and apathetic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel anything again.

That thought makes him feel desperate, and then all at once instead of apathetic he just feels _sad_ again.

How fucking pitiful.

He hates this, _hates_ it, because sadness is the worst fucking emotion, isn’t it? Anger he knows and can deal with—he simply has to walk away from whatever is angering him for a while, or in Potter’s case, punch him in the face. Sadness on the other hand—sadness he can’t walk away from. It just eats away at him, like poison seeping into his skin and burning him all the way to his core. 

And it _hurts_.

He turns to stare at the fountain, teeth clenching at the pain.

Potter sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “For assuming.”

Draco gives a tight shake of his head.

In front of him, the Amortentia shimmers, and again he smells Astoria, fleeting like her voice in the morning when she calls him to breakfast.

When she _used_ to call him to breakfast—fuck.

He doesn’t _want_ to miss her like this. He doesn’t want to miss _anyone_ like this, ever again, but right now he just wants to forget, to distract himself with something, anything, that will take away this awful _pain_.

He stares into the fountain, wishing and wishing—

The fountain.

He could take—

No. It’s an awful idea.

But. It would _work_.

Belatedly, he realizes Potter is speaking to him. “…going to head home now, all right?”

Draco blinks at him. “What? Yes, whatever, Potter.”

Potter gives him a strange look, shoving his hands into the pockets as he leaves the room.

Draco waits until Potter’s most definitely gone, eyeing the room around him to make sure he’s truly alone. 

Then he allows himself to let out a single, silent sob of utter misery, doubling over, all the grief of a relationship that would never be the same again hitting him at once. He bites back the scream that wants to escape his lungs, and then stands up and composes himself.

Pulling a bit of parchment from his pocket, he Transfigures it into a thin glass vial.

His hand shakes as he fills the vial with Amortentia.

\--

Somehow Harry isn’t surprised when he hears a crack of Apparition from his sitting room shortly after he’s arrived home. He’s also not surprised when he walks into his sitting room and sees that it’s Malfoy, eyes wide, looking as if he hadn’t meant to end up here.

“If you’re going to invade my flat unannounced, you could at least Floo,” Harry says, frowning at him. He’s in the middle of cooking dinner.

“I hate the Floo,” Malfoy responds. He looks nervous, off-center. “Listen. Potter.”

Harry waits for him to continue, but after several seconds he doesn’t, so Harry says, “What? Go on.”

Malfoy closes his eyes. “This is—this is absolutely idiotic.”

“…Okay?” Harry says. He’s growing slightly frustrated, so he turns and heads back to the kitchen, spelling the stove off so at least nothing will catch on fire. When he returns to the sitting room, Malfoy hasn’t moved. “Are you going to explain yourself now?”

Malfoy doesn’t say a word. Instead, looking almost ill, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vial.

Harry stares at it in shock, at the familiar pearly sheen of the potion he’s holding. “You didn’t.”

“Listen, I know this is an awful idea,” Malfoy says, holding out the vial, and Harry realizes with astonishment that his hand is faintly shaking. 

“I’ll say it is,” Harry says, scowling. “How could you even _suggest_ —

“I need to _forget_ ,” Malfoy bursts out, looking pained. “I—I can’t use this with anyone outside of the department, obviously, and I just—I just need to forget—”

“And, what, _use_ me?” Harry asks, glaring at him. “I’m not some toy for you to distract yourself with because your ex-wife left you, you know. Do you even fucking remember what happened last time?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Malfoy says. “Yes, of course I remember.” He sighs, hard, through his nose. “This isn’t—this isn’t easy for me, okay? I remember, and it was—it was awful afterward, but. But I couldn’t think of anything else while I was on it, I didn’t _want_ to think about anything else and I—I _need_ that now, Potter—”

“Malfoy? Get out of my house,” Harry says, seething, slowly raising a hand and pointing it at the door.

“Potter, _please_ ,” Malfoy says, and that gives Harry pause.

Malfoy never says please.

“If you… if you ever felt like I helped you, during the time we were Trainees,” Malfoy starts slowly, “If you ever felt like you owed me a favor—use it on this,” Malfoy says, then again. “ _Please_.”

Harry swallows hard. Somehow the sight of Malfoy standing there trembling in front of him makes pause.

Slowly his anger deflates. Malfoy really does look bad, doesn’t he? And he _did_ help Harry when they were Trainees, that’s certainly true. Sure, Harry reciprocated, but he’s almost certain Malfoy would have been completely fine without him. Harry, on the other hand…

Okay. He might owe Malfoy a favor.

This is still a really bad idea.

But Malfoy seems really, truly desperate, and what will he do if Harry _does_ turn him down? Go out and do something worse? Be an insufferable arse every day they work together from now on?

Harry doesn’t relish the thought, so he crosses his arms and huffs a sigh. “It wasn’t pleasant, when we came down last time in the middle of—you know.” When they stopped loving each other in the middle of fucking, is what he means, but he can’t really say that aloud, can he?

“Oh,” Malfoy says, then nods, starting to look hopeful. “Yes. But—we came out of it so fast because we were merely splashed with the potion. It won’t be like that if we drink it—we can decide how long it’ll last, even, depending on how large of a dose we take. It won’t be bad,” he says, as if he could really promise it’ll be _good_.

But being able to time it is helpful, at least. 

Harry can’t believe he’s even _considering_ this.

“How long would you suggest?” Harry asks, staring at the little vial in Malfoy’s hand.

“Is…” Malfoy swallows visibly. “Is twelve hours okay?”

Harry stares at him. “ _That_ long? Really?”

“I couldn’t sleep at all last night,” Malfoy admits, again looking miserable. That explains his appearance today, at least. “I just—I couldn’t stop thinking of—fuck. Never mind. We can do shorter.”

 _Such_ a bad idea. 

Harry shakes his head. “No, twelve hours is fine,” he says, convinced he’s going to hate himself for this afterwards, even as Malfoy gives him a look that almost feels like gratitude. Harry Summons a couple of shot glasses. “Afraid I don’t have measuring cups.”

“That’s fine,” Malfoy says, voice lacking the sharpness that Harry is used to hearing. Then Malfoy takes out his wand and uncorks the Amortentia, casting a measuring spell that Harry vaguely remembers from Potions class. Two servings neatly aliquot themselves into the waiting shot glasses, filling them nearly to the top, and Harry takes one, staring down at it dubiously.

It’s not a good idea to drink it, not at all.

But he does it anyway.

The potion is warm and sweet in his throat, and then he watches Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bob as he too swallows it down.

The first time, it had taken a moment for the potion to work.

Not this time.

Almost immediately, Harry feels a jolt of pleasure in his spine, and then—and then all of his feelings snap into place.

Affection crashes over him, pulsing so warm in his chest he almost burns, and God, _Draco_ —how could he have forgotten how much he _loves_ him?

“God—that was fast,” Harry chokes out, feeling nearly dizzy with how much he wants to hold, wants to touch him, _needs_ to, really—

“It’s because we drank it this time,” Draco says, stumbling toward him. “The—the effects take hold more quickly and—and they’re stronger too, _Merlin_ —”

Harry can’t wait anymore. He slides his hands into Draco’s hair and kisses him, hot and needy, pulling Draco as close as humanly possible, and oh, _oh_. “Fuck,” he says, because it’s better than he remembers, touching Draco again, finally, _finally_.

“Potter,” Draco sighs, slipping his arms around Harry, and when Harry hugs him back Draco sinks into the embrace, looking like a load has been taken off of his shoulders. A spark of pleasure sings in Harry’s lungs at the fact that he’d been able to help Draco relax like this. 

“It’s Harry,” Harry reminds him gently.

“I’ll call you Potter if I want to,” Draco mumbles, and Harry realizes he looks almost embarrassed.

Harry laughs and kisses him again, kisses his cheek, his jaw. “Want to sit down?” 

Draco nods, clinging to him as they make their way over to the sofa. Then they curl up together, Draco’s long limbs pressing up against Harry’s, and happiness dances in Harry’s chest as he runs a hand through Draco’s hair. Draco sighs, leaning into it, and then he presses his face into Harry’s neck and whispers, “I missed you so fucking much.”

It’s not _real_ , Harry remembers dimly, and that thought hurts. “You didn’t,” he says, aching at the thought of Draco not loving him mere minutes ago. “You didn’t really miss me, before.”

“I _did_ ,” Draco insists, looking up at him. “It’s. It’s fine if you don’t believe me.”

“No, I believe you, I just—” Harry feels unsettled, because his memories and his love for Draco don’t line up at all, and he knows it has to be the potion thrumming through his veins. _God_. “We’re supposed to hate each other,” he remembers, stricken with horror at the thought.

“Harry, don’t—don’t think about that,” Draco tells him, knocking their foreheads together. “You don’t have to think of it for now.”

“Okay,” Harry says, happy enough that Draco’s called him ‘ _Harry_ ’ that he lets the thoughts go, lets himself be immersed in Draco’s touch.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Draco says, and then he does, pressing his mouth against Harry’s, and Harry can’t hold back a groan. His pulse races as he tugs Draco even closer, licking at Draco’s lips, biting at them. 

“I want you,” he says, and he’s not even fully hard yet but just having Draco’s body against him like this is making him feel warm all over, arousal tingling in his groin. 

“Yes,” Draco says, sighs really, breathing heavy against Harry’s jaw. He dips his head down and starts mouthing at Harry’s neck, and Harry groans, clinging to his shoulders as Draco sucks at the skin there. It’s going to leave a mark, he thinks vaguely, but that—that’s fine, because anyway Draco is _his—_

He’s not _his_ , not really, but Harry wants him to be, more than he’s wanted anything in his life. 

“Draco,” he says, gasping when Draco sucks a little harder. “We should—we should date.”

Draco stops, looking up at him, leaving Harry’s neck cool and wet. “Probably you’re going to think that’s a bad idea in the morning.”

Harry sighs, the memory of taking the potion now faint in his mind, nearly overtaken by the immense affection he feels now. Still, he concedes, “You’re probably right.”

“Just,” Draco says, tugging at the top clasp on Harry’s robes until it falls open, revealing his collarbones. “Just don’t think. Just let me touch you.” Then he’s biting Harry’s neck again, lower, sucking on Harry’s collarbone and _definitely_ leaving a mark this time.

Harry huffs a groan. “This time, let’s— _oh_ , let’s…” he’s cut off by Draco kissing him again, and he kisses back, wet and hot and sloppy this time.

“What—what were you saying?” Draco mumbles, voice deepened by lust.

Instead of answering, Harry closes his eyes and concentrates, and one moment later they land on Harry’s bed, having Apparated there.

“Oh,” Draco says, eyes wide, startled at the change in location. Then a slow smile grows on his face. “Are you taking me to bed, Harry?”

“Sure,” Harry says, grinning as Draco shivers a bit. “If you—if you want.”

“I want,” Draco says firmly. “And this time—” He stops abruptly, flushing, his breath unsteady. “I don’t like being vulnerable,” he admits, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“I knew that,” Harry says, a bit surprised that he cared enough in the past to realize. But that’s okay. He doesn’t have to think about the past right now. “’S’okay,” he tells Draco, and Draco nods.

“Then—then will you fuck me?” Draco says, voice raspy, pupils all blown out as he looks up at Harry, and Harry’s breath hitches.

“Yes—yes,” Harry says, and then he’s climbing on top of him and somewhere in there Draco gets ahold of his wand and does that thing again, that thing where all of their clothes are gone—and Harry doesn’t even care if he’s Vanished them or not because suddenly Draco’s skin is hot on his own and their cocks are nudging together and _fuck_ —

Harry rolls his hips against Draco’s then, slowly, bracing himself above him and grinning when Draco’s eyes roll back. “ _Fuck_ , Harry,” Draco mumbles. “Keep—keep doing that.”

And Harry does for a moment, but then he gets distracted because he looks down at Draco’s cock and thinks of having it in his mouth and—and he can do that, can’t he?

So he does, crawling backwards down Draco’s body, and Draco looks at him with wide eyes. “What are you— _oh—!_ ” he gasps as Harry sucks him down, stretching his jaw so he can slide down until Draco’s cock hits the back of his throat. He keeps going, Draco thick and wet and heavy between his lips as he slides up and down, his own cock pulsing every time Draco moans. Draco’s hands start tugging lightly at his hair and then _Harry’s_ the one moaning and fuck, he loves him so much.

He pulls off, looking at Draco, memorizing the lines of his face, his sharp cheekbones, the lovely gray of his eyes. “Why’d you stop?” Draco complains petulantly, though the effect is a bit ruined by the fact that he’s flushed and panting and—and he too can’t keep his eyes off of Harry.

Harry’s momentarily struck by how much he loves him, _wants_ him.

Last time he felt like this, it was an accident.

This time… it wasn’t an accident, was it? And that changes everything.

Suddenly all he wants is to climb on top of Draco again to kiss him. So he does, feeling breathless as their lips meet, wanting him as close as possible. “Mm… can we just—just do this?” he asks, rolling his hips again, sighing at the feel of Draco’s body naked against his as he works a hand down between them to align their cocks.

“Y-yeah, that’s fine,” Draco says, bucking his hips upward and making Harry moan. Draco feels around and picks up his wand, and then he casts a Lubrication Spell, and _oh_.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, because now it’s warm and _slick_ and he can’t help rutting against Draco, pressing his forehead to Draco’s shoulder. And then time seems to slow down as he looks up again and meets Draco’s eyes, and Draco _smiles_ at him, and Harry feels both like he’s broken and like Draco’s fixed him all at once.

His orgasm comes as a surprise, a gentle wave that rocks through him as he ruts against Draco, and he spills over Draco’s stomach, groaning, clutching at him.

“You’ll clean that up l-later,” Draco says, the shakiness in his voice giving away that he’s close. Harry rolls to the side, picking up the nearest wand and vaguely recognizing it as Draco’s as he slicks his hand, feeling a bit proud that the wand still works for him. 

Then he takes Draco in hand and Draco sucks in a breath, his eyes fluttering shut. Moments later, he comes, spurting into Harry’s hand, and Harry revels in the image of him, mouth rounded, gasping as he presses upward into Harry’s touch.

Harry can barely focus as he casts a couple of lazy Cleaning Charms. All he wants to do is climb into Draco’s arms, and so he does, pleased to feel Draco melt into him as he pulls up the coverlet. “I’m so tired,” Draco mumbles.

“Sleep,” Harry tells him, thinking of earlier, when Draco said he hadn’t slept all last night. “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” Draco says, adjusting his head on the pillow.

Vaguely, Harry wonders how long they have before the potion goes off, but before he can fully calculate it he yawns, too tired to think so hard. “Love you,” he mumbles, like it’s second nature even though it’s only the second time he’s ever said it.

Draco doesn’t say it back, but the half-asleep smile he gives Harry is more than enough.

\--

Draco wakes feeling like shit.

Well-rested, yes. But still like shit, because the comedown from the fucking Amortentia is apparently much, much worse when taken orally. His head hurts like he’s hungover, and there’s a pain in his chest that he can’t even begin to describe, one that makes it nearly so he can’t breathe before subsiding, _fuck_ —

Slowly, all of the side-effects subside to a manageable level, and he lets out a long exhale. Technically the Unspeakable version of Amortentia hasn’t yet been authorized for twelve hour usage—that was a miscalculation on his part, one that he hopes Potter won’t call him out on. But thankfully now that the pain in his chest has gone away, only the headache remains—and he can deal with a bad headache.

What he can’t deal with is the fact that he’s still lying naked in Potter’s bed, and Potter’s bound to wake up at any moment.

Making as little movement as possible, he turns his head and looks around the room, grateful to see his clothes in a heap on a chair over by the wall. His clothes aren’t the only ones lying around—there’s a couple sets of Unspeakable robes in the floor, looking like they’ve just been stepped out of, as well as a pile of jumpers on the dresser. He wrinkles his nose at a pair of socks lying crumpled on the nightstand.

Of course Potter is as messy as he’d expected him to be. It’s a shame Draco lov—

No. No, he doesn’t.

It’s just the after-effects of the Amortentia. Fuck.

He has to get out of here. As quickly and quietly as he can, he grabs his wand, Summoning his clothes as he slides out of bed. Then he shoves his robes under his arm and turns to Apparate away to his flat, whirling away—but not before he catches sight of the green of Potter’s eyes staring back at him.

Back at his flat, he feels like he can breathe again.

But only for a few moments. And then the reality of everything crashes over him again.

Astoria has left him.

He just fucked Potter on Amortentia.

Again.

Pain hits him like a punch in the gut, pain that his closest confidant has left him, pain that he’s so fucking alone that he had to go to _Potter_ for the only relief he has left, and how fucking pitiful is that?

And Potter _let_ him, the arsehole, he should have just forced Draco to leave and they could’ve gone back to hating each other in silence. But no. He had to say yes because he’s got a savior complex larger than Britain, and then they’d gone and loved each other again and Draco _hates_ it—

He hates it because it worked.

He hates it because it _did_ make him forget. It made him _happy_ , happier than he can ever remember being in recent years, and maybe Amortentia works differently when it’s consensual—because Draco wants that feeling _back_.

But it’s _Potter_.

And yes, Draco wants to fuck him, but now he also is incredibly angry with him because Potter—Potter gave him something he shouldn’t have. 

Unlike the first time they did it, Draco can’t pass it off as something he didn’t want. He _asked_ for it, fucking _pleaded_ for it. And Potter let him.

Draco let himself.

He wants to scream. 

Instead he takes the vial of Amortentia from his pocket.

He should destroy it, smash it, flush it down the drain, _something_. But he doesn’t, because he’s apparently incapable of making good decisions to save his fucking life. So instead he carefully carries the vial to his room and puts it in the drawer of his bedside table.

Because deep inside, he knows without a doubt that he’s going to ask for it again.

And that makes him hate Potter even more.

\--

Malfoy is exceptionally irritable in the following couple of days. He’s practically giving Harry the silent treatment, but Harry just shrugs and bears it, because honestly, he simply doesn’t care anymore—not about Malfoy, not about what they’d done, not about waking up to see Malfoy leaving and feeling like his heart was breaking—

Maybe he does care a bit about that last part.

It’s only because it reminds him of Will, he tells himself. Will, with his dimples and brown hair, who left the morning after Harry tried to propose without a look back even though Harry loved him more than he ever loved anyone before. 

He didn’t even look regretful as he slipped out the door, as he left Harry in the dust like Malfoy did just days ago. 

Harry’s wondered what exactly his ex was thinking for the whole two years since, but he hasn’t had the courage to write and ask.

With Malfoy, on the other hand, he doesn’t even _have_ to ask what he’s thinking. It’s obvious from the hard set of Malfoy’s shoulders and the derision in his brow—not to mention that ever-present sneer—that he’s back to regarding Harry with utter contempt.

Harry’s surprised to find that he’s actually okay with that. It makes it easier to ignore the fact that not too long ago, he was in love with him. 

He knows it was the potion. Really, he does. But it _felt_ real to him in those moments, even if it’s not, and that’s not something that Harry can forget easily.

But now that Malfoy refuses to speak to him, he can actually focus on his work for once. He finds an interesting text on Muggle thoughts about Purgatory that remind him vaguely of the time he died, and he occupies himself with reading that for several days, surprised to find himself actually enjoying it. Then when he’s done, he finds himself another book on the same topic and sets to taking notes on that. He mentions his findings to Hughes and is even met with approval and a, “Spend a few years more on that and you might just be able to start a real project!”

Which he doesn’t _want_ to do, not at all. He knows himself well enough to know that he would go absolutely mad if he had to sit in this dusty chamber for the rest of his life. But he still has more than a month left in the department rotation, so he may as well be productive somehow. 

His only regret is that he can’t tell Hermione about his reading—she would be proud, he thinks, of him being excited over research for once. 

He hates not being able to tell her anything—Hermione and Ron both. His dinners with them lately have been mostly the two of them talking rather than Harry, and he doesn’t at all mind sitting and listening to their tales from work, but he wishes he could at least tell them _something_ about his life. He can’t talk about his job, and he refuses to bring up Malfoy at all—anyway he can’t let on that Malfoy’s his coworker, or risk breaking the Oath—so all of that means he stays relatively quiet when they’re together.

So he continues his readings in isolation. Despite the vague loneliness that threatens to gnaw at him unless he focuses on pushing it away, he spends a couple of weeks being surprisingly productive, all the while trying to forget about Malfoy—to forget how sick he felt the morning after Malfoy was gone.

He’s never taking the Amortentia again. He swears it. He felt nearly feverish afterward, his body turning against him, causing emotions to overwhelm him even though he knew logically that it was only the potion—but that didn’t stop himself for pining for Malfoy as if they’d been lovers for years instead of hours. 

Even if that feeling only lasted minutes—lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, biting back tears after Malfoy left—even if it was over by the time he forced himself to get up, it’s not something he wants to revisit ever again.

Except it seems both Malfoy and life itself hate him, so he really shouldn’t be surprised when Malfoy asks him to anyway.

Malfoy catches at Harry’s sleeve as they walk out of the Department of Mysteries one night, causing Harry to turn. “Potter,” Malfoy says, and Harry immediately knows what he wants.

Malfoy looks—not good. He looks more like the Malfoy from sixth year than the one Harry’s used to seeing nowadays—the Malfoy who was gaunt and stressed and seemed as if someone could snap him in half if they tried. He’s not quite _that_ bad right now. 

But only just. 

He seems like he’s lost weight, holding himself in a way that makes him seem fragile.

The part of Harry that once loved him aches slightly.

But that’s not enough to convince Harry to do what Malfoy wants. “No,” he says, firmly this time. He’s standing his ground.

“I haven’t said anything—”

“I’m _not_ doing it again,” Harry tells him, crossing his arms. “The Amortentia, right? No.”

Malfoy bows his head. “Oh,” he says, and for a moment it looks like he might pass out. As it is, he wavers where he stands, and Harry raises a hand to steady him without thinking about it.

The moment his fingers touch Malfoy’s shoulder, memories assault him—taking the Oath, standing side-by-side, back when he only knew Malfoy as Trainee Four—supporting each other. Steadying each other. 

He’s startled to suddenly realize he misses that feeling.

Harry’s just lonely. That’s why he suddenly wants to be near Malfoy again, right? He’s just lonely, and—and touch-starved. That’s all.

“Get off,” Malfoy says weakly, pushing him away, and Harry tries not to feel disappointed as he lets go of his shoulder. “If you’re not going to—just. Just don’t,” Malfoy says, and then he turns to walk away.

“Wait,” Harry says, then shuts his eyes. He’s not going to do this. He blinks them open again, taking in Malfoy, who looks bloody exhausted. 

Harry sighs.

“Come on,” he says after a moment, holding out his arm. It’s not a promise of anything, nothing near it— _really_ , it’s not, but—

But Malfoy’s face lights up like it’s Christmas, and Harry feels like it’s simply _right_. _God_.

“Thank you,” Malfoy says, “thank you—”

“I’m not taking the Amortentia. We’ll just—we’ll just talk,” Harry tells him, but it’s getting harder and harder to believe, especially as he Side-Alongs Malfoy to his flat, shoving past him into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

And then they sit at his kitchen table and Malfoy pulls out the vial of Amortentia, setting it between them. Harry stares it down like it’s an adversary in Wizarding chess, ready to knock him out at the slightest provocation. He clenches his teeth. 

He can’t believe he’s _actually_ considering this again. He hates the potion so fucking much. 

Or rather, he hates coming off of it more than anything, hates the drawn out minutes of heartbreak, hates the confusion that comes after that when his feelings try to right themselves. He hates not feeling anything for Malfoy anymore, hates how worn and lonely it leaves him for hours afterwards. He’s so tired of hating Malfoy too, of pushing against him, but that’s all he has left when the potion leaves him empty inside.

He doesn’t want to do this. He _shouldn’t_ , for his own sanity, for his own mental health. He hates having stuff mess with his head, and anyway they’re still rivals, for all intents and purposes. Malfoy isn’t someone he particularly _likes_ , especially not now, after weeks of watching Malfoy bristle every time Harry comes near.

But there was a time, not too long ago, when Malfoy was nearly a friend.

“This isn’t good for you,” Harry says, “For either of us.” 

Malfoy gives him a flat look. “I don’t care,” he says.

Harry opens his mouth, annoyed, but before he can respond Malfoy hangs his head, exhaustion in the hunch of his shoulders.

“Nothing is good for me,” Malfoy says quietly, sounding like he believes it.

For a moment Harry truly aches for him. “It’ll get better,” he says, because it _will_ —he remembers how it felt like the world was ending when Will left. It’s not like that anymore, thank Merlin. And it’ll be okay for Malfoy too—right?

“That doesn’t help,” Malfoy says, expression pinched. “Look. Are you going to take it or not?”

Harry doesn’t answer for a moment.

Malfoy, looking frustrated, shoves the vial toward him. “Potter.”

Harry closes his eyes. He’s trapped. If he takes it, he has to go through it all again, the rush of feeling and the warmth and Malfoy in his arms—and the heartbreak of watching Malfoy leave after, of having it tear him to pieces all over again. 

He can’t bear that. He can’t.

But he doesn’t want Malfoy to leave now either, because Malfoy looks like he might self-destruct if Harry pushes him away, and Harry—Harry doesn’t want that either.

He wonders just exactly when he’d really, truly stopped hating him.

Emotions muddled all through his chest, he reaches out and picks up the vial, fighting to keep his hand from trembling.

He lets out a deep sigh. “How long?” 

Malfoy sags with relief, and Harry hadn’t known until that moment just how much tension Malfoy was carrying. It’s not long before Malfoy reconstructs his façade, his face quickly morphing into carefully blank wall. “Twelve hours again?” Malfoy asks, his tone haughty, and for the first time Harry wonders if all of Malfoy’s prickliness is really just some sort of defense mechanism. 

Maybe it always has been.

“Okay,” Harry says, pulse starting to race as he hands Malfoy the potion vial, trying not to notice the way his heart flips when their hands touch. 

He Summons the two shot glasses from before so Malfoy can do the measuring spell, watching him as he does it, feeling overwhelmed. What is he _doing?_ He doesn’t want the potion, not really, but he wants to help Malfoy, and he wants—

He wants to be close to him. He has to admit that. And it’s bloody awful, now that he knows it, but he can’t take it back, even as he watches Malfoy pick up one of the glasses of Amortentia.

Malfoy takes the potion without another thought, his eyes closing as he tips his head back.

And Harry—Harry looks down at the potion and doesn’t know what to _do_. Malfoy is counting on him now, isn’t he? Counting on him to do this?

Or rather—Malfoy is counting on the Amortentia. Probably he couldn’t give two shits about Harry.

Harry, on the other hand, doesn’t need the potion—he never has.

Heart in his throat, he raises the shot glass anyway, tipping the liquid in it toward his mouth. But this time, his wand under the table, he wordlessly casts a Vanishing Spell.

The potion in his glass disappears before it ever touches his tongue.

And Malfoy doesn’t notice. 

\--

Draco knows what to expect now, in the moments after the potion hits his throat. He waits, counting down the seconds until the exhaustion and the misery and the fucking hole in his chest all fade _away_ —

Then the blissful feeling finally hits him, the sheer happiness from being around a person he adores so completely, and Harry is sitting across from him, mussed up hair and crooked glasses and all. Merlin. Draco doesn’t know how he’s managed to go so long without doing this again.

For some reason, Harry looks vaguely unsettled—probably because they’re so far apart from each other. Draco understands. So he gets up from his chair, and Harry stands too, but Harry looks a little shaky and Draco wonders why—usually Harry is the more forward one in these situations. 

“It’s all right,” Draco tells him, reaching out for him, confused.

It takes a moment for Harry to walk toward him, but then he finally does, and Draco sighs in relief. “It’s all right,” Harry echoes, a cautious smile on his face. “It’ll be all right.”

“Yes,” Draco sighs as Harry slips his arms around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him close. Draco goes willingly, pressing his face into Harry’s neck and just standing there, breathing in the scent of him. It’s warm and comfortable and everything he’s missed since he last took the potion, _Merlin_.

Vaguely, he thinks about the fact that he smells Harry in the Amortentia now, whenever he opens the vial. And why wouldn’t he? Harry is important to him, so fucking important—

Draco’s breath hitches, affection throbbing in his chest, and he turns his head to kiss him.

But Harry flinches away.

Draco stares at him, alarmed, slowly dropping his arms from around him. “Harry. What’s wrong?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, dismay in his eyes. “I’m fine, really.” 

He doesn’t look fine. Fuck. Draco must have done something, something that hurt him.

“You’re not fine,” Draco says, furrowing his brow. “Is it—is it because I’ve been ignoring you?”

Harry looks a bit surprised at that. “No, no, not that,” he says. But then he seems to reconsider it. “Well… maybe a bit.”

That at least makes sense, and Draco feels a wave of guilt, something he doesn’t let himself feel when he’s off the potion. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t let himself feel when he’s off the Amortentia—or rather, that he _can’t_ feel, because he’s so consumed with his own loneliness that he can barely think.

His head is clearer now, here within reach of Harry.

“Forgive me,” Draco says, looking at him earnestly. “I… well, I was going to say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I think that I did,” he admits, his lips twisting. The Amortentia is confusing, replacing all his feelings about things with completely new ones, and sometimes he can’t remember which ones are real. But he _did_ want to hurt Harry, because he was angry. And now he’s guilty about it, guilty about hurting him.

But Harry just lets out a small laugh, catching Draco by surprise. “It’s okay,” Harry says, a rueful smile on his face. “That’s just… that’s just us, isn’t it? I think we’ve always tried to hurt each other.”

“Stupid, isn’t it?” Draco says, shaking his head. Why did he ever _want_ to hurt Harry? “We’re idiots.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Harry says. Then, a strange unsureness in his eyes, he reaches out to take Draco’s hand. 

His fingers are warm and rough with calluses as they slide in between Draco’s, and it’s a bit awkward, just standing there in Harry’s kitchen—but Draco’s heart skips a beat all the same. They’ve never done this before, have they? Held hands? Harry’s looking at him almost shyly, and Draco finds himself smiling back at him, and—and Merlin, he wants to kiss him, but Harry probably doesn’t want that at the moment so he won’t. Not yet.

Instead he tugs on Harry’s hand, pulling him so they can walk into the other room. “Sit with me,” he says, moving to curl up on the sofa, and Harry complies, leaning into Draco in a way that makes him go all warm inside.

“I like this,” Harry says after a moment, smoothing his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand, making Draco’s chest go all fluttery.

“Mm. Sap,” Draco mumbles, even though he likes it too. He won’t _admit_ it, of course. Sappy things like that are all Harry’s territory.

“So?” Harry asks, eyes meeting Draco’s. And then, slowly, he pulls Draco’s hand towards his mouth and presses his lips to Draco’s wrist.

Draco shivers in pleasure. “You’re just doing that to distract me, aren’t you?” he complains lightly, watching with warm arousal stirring in his veins as Harry’s pupils go dilated.

Harry kisses again, higher up this time, lips warm and soft on the sensitive skin of Draco’s forearm. “Distract you from what?”

Draco’s not sure, actually. He’s forgotten what he was trying to say. “You’re the worst,” he says instead, and Harry seems to pause at that, looking disappointed. Draco’s heart clenches. “I didn’t really mean that.”

Biting his lip, Harry nods. “I know,” he says. “But sometimes you do.”

“You don’t have to think about that—”

“I _do_ ,” Harry says, sighing. “Sorry. I just… can’t seem to forget about it right now—about us hating each other.”

Ah, fuck. Maybe the batch of Amortentia has gone off from sitting in the vial for so long—Harry’s still fixating on the unhappy things from their past, and Draco feels a pang of sadness at that. He doesn’t _want_ Harry to feel sad, not right now, not when they’re only together for the night.

He’ll have to throw out that batch of potion. That’s okay. He can always get more from the fountain.

Which, of course, means that he means to do this again.

He sighs and squeezes Harry’s hand. “I wish I could help you forget.”

“It’s all right,” Harry tells him, something unreadable in his expression. “Really. It is.”

“Okay,” Draco says, still not quite believing him. 

Harry notices, of course. “It’s just. It’s so different when you’re—when we’re like this,” Harry tries to explain.

“It’s not bad, though,” Draco says, watching Harry’s face. “Right?”

Harry thinks about it for a second. “No,” he says, and gives him a small smile. “It’s not bad.”

“Good,” Draco says, leaning so that he can rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. Immediately he feels calm, peaceful in a way he hasn’t been able to feel for weeks. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knows that it’s really, terribly unhealthy to be relying on the potion like this. Especially with someone like Potter.

But this is all he has. It’s the only thing that brings him any joy right now, and if Potter has to be the one he relies on for now, then so be it.

He’d tried so hard to resist coming back. He ignored Harry for weeks, he Pensieved the memories of being on the Amortentia, locked them away so he couldn’t get at them. 

But it still didn’t work. His resolve broke eventually, and he came crawling back to Harry anyway—

And it’s worth it.

He missed holding Harry, kissing him, missed it so fucking much that sometimes it hurt just to be sitting next to him at work—because he couldn’t _touch_ him, and because Harry couldn’t even know that he _wanted_ to touch him. He won’t tell Harry even now, because saying so would make Draco feel so vulnerable he couldn’t stand it. 

Besides, nothing is stopping Harry from remembering all of this when the potion wears off. And then Harry would laugh at him, and Draco would have to hate him even more.

Even though he hates hating Harry. 

He thinks of last time they drank the potion, when he let it slip that he missed Harry. He wasn’t lying. 

He did miss him, even when he was angry with him.

Draco misses him every fucking day at this point. 

He just pretends not to.

For now though, Harry is his, warm in his arms. So just for tonight, Draco forgets his sadness and loneliness and regrets—and lets himself feel happy again.

\--

Harry feels like he’s drowning, because God, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s with Malfoy on the sofa, he’s _cuddling_ with him even though he’s not even on the Amortentia—Merlin, how did he manage to get here?

He’s surprised, albeit relieved, that Malfoy hasn’t realized he didn’t dose himself. He feels like he’s been stiff from the beginning, which Malfoy definitely _had_ noticed, and Harry quickly had to force himself to relax because then Malfoy started looking all sad, and—and as confused as Harry is now, he at least knows he doesn’t want Malfoy to be sad.

So they’re cuddling, relaxing, their outer robes shucked off as they sit together, and Harry—Harry is comfortable, like this, in his ex-enemy’s arms. He _likes_ it here, even. God.

And Harry’s lips have touched Malfoy’s skin of his own accord—because he wanted to. He wanted to kiss him.

He kind of still does. But he’s so fucking scared of what that might mean that he can’t.

Instead, he starts to talk, trying to chase away his own awkwardness. “I’ve been doing some interesting reading at work recently,” he says, cursing himself afterward for bringing up something so boring.

“Oh?” Malfoy asks, managing to sound interested, and Harry is grateful. “Sounds impossible. Nothing is interesting in that department.”

“No, really,” Harry says, and then he begins to tell him of all the things he’s found out about Muggle purgatory, how some of the things match his own experience, like the brightness of the station. “They call it ‘going into the light’,” he tells him, and Malfoy listens and replies and pays attention instead of looking bored, and—

It’s nice.

It’s nice to actually be able to talk to someone about what he’s been doing, especially someone who’s taken all the same Unspeakable coursework. It’s nice to feel connected to someone in a way he’s not sure he has since Will left.

And—and it’s nice to have Malfoy’s body warm against him too, Malfoy idly playing with Harry’s hand as he speaks.

“I’m a bit jealous you’ve been productive,” Malfoy admits eventually. “I haven’t been able to really research anything since Astoria left—everything simply falls out of my brain. I was trying to read about her condition, you know, but.” He sighs, looking briefly dejected, and on impulse, Harry leans closer and kisses his jaw.

Immediately Harry’s pulse starts racing faster, especially when Malfoy looks back at him, wide-eyed, his face so close Harry can feel his breath.

“I want you terribly,” Malfoy says, making Harry shudder a gasp, and—

And Harry wants him too.

So this time Harry kisses him on the lips—and fire erupts in his veins as he slants their mouths together, groaning as Malfoy slides his hand around the back of Harry’s back. Malfoy’s tongue is hot as it swipes into Harry’s mouth, and Harry’s surprised and embarrassed and also really turned on by the fact that he _likes_ kissing him, likes it a _lot_ , likes biting at Malfoy’s lower lip and hearing him moan, likes pushing Malfoy up against the arm of the sofa so that he’s half on top of him, pressing their bodies together.

“I need you,” Malfoy says, and Harry groans, coming up for air, half out of his mind with lust.

He shuts his eyes briefly, thinking of watching Malfoy with the man at Bentley’s. Harry was jealous back then, wasn’t he? _He_ wanted to be the one inside Malfoy, and Malfoy doesn’t even know it.

That last thought—that Malfoy didn’t even know he was there—makes Harry feel a bit guilty, and he pulls away slightly with a sigh.

“What is it?” Malfoy asks, frowning, reaching for him again.

“Wait,” Harry says, and Malfoy’s arm drops. “I need to tell you… I. Er.”

“Spit it out so we can get back to kissing,” Malfoy says, exasperation in his voice.

Harry chuckles at that, even though at the same time he can feel his own face flushing. “Well. Er. You go to the… the Gentlewizard’s club on occasion, right?” he asks.

Slowly, Malfoy’s eyes widen. “Yes,” he says, sounding suspicious. “Why?”

“Well, um,” Harry tries. “The last time…”

“Fuck,” Malfoy interrupts him. “You _were_ there, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry admits, guilt creeping into his chest.

“I fucking knew it,” Malfoy mumbles. “Astoria’s doing, I expect?”

Harry nods. “Sorry,” he says, hoping Malfoy isn’t angry.

But instead, Malfoy sighs, smiling softly at him. “You’ve been apologizing a lot today,” Malfoy says, reaching a hand up to stroke Harry’s face. It makes Harry feel all warm for a moment. “You don’t have to say sorry anymore. I’m sure I have much more to apologize for than you do.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry says, thinking with shame about how even now he’s lying to Malfoy, about all the insults he’s hurled over the years, about the scars scattered over Malfoy’s chest.

“Shh,” Malfoy says, kissing him briefly, making Harry go breathless at the softness of his lips. “I do want to know, though—how… how long were you there? At the club?”

“I, er.” Harry thinks about it. “I dunno, twenty minutes, maybe? Thirty?”

“Fuck,” Malfoy sighs, and Harry is surprised to see that his eyes are full of arousal. “And—and you were watching? What did you see?”

Harry swallows thickly, feeling his prick start to swell in his trousers as he thinks about it. “You were—you were getting fingered, and then he—he fucked you.”

“And you watched the whole time,” Malfoy says, a flush forming high on his cheeks.

“Yes,” Harry says, and Merlin, instead of being upset, Malfoy’s _turned on_ by this. He thinks of what Astoria said, about the forms Malfoy filled out at the club. “You—you like being watched.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy says vaguely, flushing and looking away.

“You do,” Harry says again, his breath coming faster, because _fuck_. 

“Did you…” Malfoy sucks in a breath, eyes bright as they meet Harry’s again. “When you were watching, did you touch yourself?”

God. “A bit,” he answers quietly, and Malfoy lets out a soft moan then that makes admitting all of this worth it.

Harry pulls away from him then, backing all the way up so that he’s sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, and Malfoy looks disappointed. “What are you doing? Come back,” Malfoy says, flushed all the way down his neck, and God, Harry can see the outline of his cock, hard through his trousers.

Harry _wants_ him.

It’s stronger somehow, without the Amortentia. Maybe because Harry knows it’s truly himself wanting this, instead of just the potion telling him to. Maybe it’s because for once he can finally remember their whole history while they’re kissing, can remember it and _forgive_ it for once, instead of just having it glossed over in his mind.

He bites his lip, sitting back against the arm of the sofa. “I won’t come back yet,” he says. “I’m… watching.” 

Slowly, Malfoy’s eyes widen, and Harry grins. “I’m not—I’m not _doing_ anything, right now I mean,” Malfoy says, swallowing audibly. “Do you—do you want me to?”

Harry nearly groans. “Yes,” he says, unable to tear his eyes from Malfoy’s body in front of him.

“Okay,” Malfoy says, looking nervous and turned on all at once. “What should I…?”

Harry’s voice goes hoarse. “Just touch yourself,” he says. “I mean—if that’s okay?”

“Fuck. Okay.” Malfoy shifts around, picking up his wand and casting a charm so that the sofa arm on his end stretches higher, allowing him to lean back comfortably. Then he swings his legs up onto the sofa, parting them, completely in Harry’s view, God. 

Slowly, Malfoy palms his cock through his trousers, and Harry groans, his own hips nearly bucking at the sight.

“Take them off,” Harry says, motioning at Malfoy’s trousers.

Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “Make me,” he says, and _fuck_.

“I don’t have to—I know you want it,” Harry tells him, forcing his voice into one that’s more authoritative, body hot with arousal as he picks up his wand. “But I’ll spell them off if I have to.”

“Fuck,” Malfoy sighs, already fumbling at the clasp on his trousers. “Fine. Order me around, why don’t you, Potter?”

Harry sucks in a breath, watching as Malfoy wriggles out of his trousers and pants. “Well, since you’ve asked…” he says, and after a moment of thought he picks up his wand, spelling the buttons of Malfoy’s shirt open too. Malfoy gasps, his chest suddenly bare—Harry can just make out the faint scar lines on his chest.

“ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy complains, and Harry wonders if he’s using his surname on purpose. Whatever it is, it’s kind of hot.

“Touch your cock,” Harry tells him, Summoning the lube from his bedroom and tossing the bottle over.

Malfoy catches it, looking breathless as he drips some onto his hand. Then he slicks himself, moaning softly, his eyelids fluttering shut.

Harry just sits there and drinks in the sight of Malfoy wanking in front of him, and God, this is probably the hottest fucking thing he’s ever done in his life.

The room goes quiet, filled with only the sounds of Malfoy’s hand moving on his prick, and Harry watches as the head, swollen and pink, appears and disappears again through the tight ring of Malfoy’s fingers. He thinks of when he sucked him off weeks ago and moans a little, wanting to touch him so badly, but not—not just yet.

Instead he unzips his own trousers, watching Malfoy gasp as he pulls his own cock out. “Fuck,” Malfoy sighs, moving to pass him the lube. Harry takes it and slicks his cock, hips bucking into his own hand, and then he bites his lip and hands Malfoy the bottle of lube again.

“Why—why’d you give it back?” Malfoy asks, breath coming in heavy gasps.

Harry swallows hard, squeezing at the base of his cock so he can stave off his arousal for a moment. “So you can finger yourself,” he says, his voice husky.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Malfoy mumbles, but then he’s immediately slicking up his fingers, looking positively disheveled as he lifts one hip so he can work a hand behind himself.

“Spread your legs further,” Harry tells him, and Malfoy complies, meaning Harry can see the exact moment Malfoy begins to push a finger in, his whole body stilling. “God,” Harry sighs. “You’re so bloody hot.”

“Shut up,” Malfoy mumbles, his cheeks going pink as he grinds down against his own hand. “You better fuck me after.”

“Nngh,” Harry groans, because the thought of fucking Malfoy right now is nearly too much, but he _wants_ it so, so badly. “Add another,” he gasps out, watching Malfoy’s finger sliding in and out of himself.

“If you insist,” Malfoy says drily, as if he’s trying to seem unaffected, but the full body flush that’s come over him says otherwise. He inhales deeply, exhaling through his nose as he pulls his finger out, then slides two in instead. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Tell me how it feels,” Harry says, forcing himself to stop wanking for now, because if he touches his cock now he thinks he might come, _Merlin._

“It’s—fuck, you’re being so—” Malfoy’s cheeks go all pink. “You think you can embarrass me like this, Potter?”

Harry wants to laugh and is also incredibly turned on all at once, by this strange sort of roleplay, by them acting like—well, themselves. “If you want me to fuck you, _Malfoy_ , you’ll do as I say.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but even so, he shivers as he starts to work a third finger in himself, wet and sloppy. “I don’t answer to the likes of you.”

“Then I guess you don’t want me that badly after all,” Harry says, shrugging.

Huffing a sigh, Malfoy looks away. “Fine. It feels good,” he says finally. “It’s— _oh_ —it’s still a bit tight, and, I—fuck, I want it to be you, I keep thinking about it, _fuck_ —”

Harry can’t take it anymore, arousal pulsing so strongly in his veins he can’t think. “Come here,” he says, his voice losing its stern tone, coming out needy instead, because he _needs_ him, _now_ —

“Nngh, yes, all right,” Malfoy gasps, and then he’s Scourgifying his hand and climbing over to Harry, on top of him, settling back on his hands so that Harry’s between his legs. Harry slides down so he’s lying flat on the couch, grabbing at Malfoy’s thighs, his arse, to help position him—

And then, eyes wide with arousal as he looks right at Harry, Malfoy sinks down on his cock, slick and hot and tight.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry groans, “Don’t move, I can’t—just wait—”

“Yeah, okay,” Malfoy says, bottoming out and stilling, making a face as he adjusts.

“You a-all right?” Harry asks, breath shallow because fuck, Malfoy feels good. 

“Mhm,” Malfoy says. “Just—stings a bit. Can you… touch me?”

“Yeah, yes, of course,” Harry says, shifting so he can wrap his hand around Malfoy’s still-slick cock. The moment he strokes him, Malfoy groans loudly, tightening around Harry even further. “ _Fuck_ , fuck Malfoy, I’m going to come soon.”

“You can—you can say Draco now,” Malfoy says, biting his lip, and Harry flushes—right. Right. 

Draco. 

“Draco,” Harry sighs, and Malfoy looks pleased at that.

Malfoy lifts his hips, sliding nearly all the way off of Harry, and then he sinks down again, and _oh_ , _oh_ —Harry thrusts upward to meet him, gripping at Malfoy’s thighs, the rhythm slow and steady and—

And Malfoy keeps looking at him with something like warmth in his expression. Harry _knows_ it’s the Amortentia, but.

But it’s really nice, to feel loved like this.

When Harry comes, shuddering, spurting inside Malfoy, it’s with “ _Draco_ ” on his lips. He pulls frantically at Malfoy’s cock, and Malfoy comes soon after, gasping, tightening on Harry’s softening cock, coating Harry’s hand in slick wetness.

Then Malfoy pulls off and tumbles into Harry’s arms.

Harry holds him close then, casting a discreet Cleaning Charm over both of them, still feeling breathless. “Thanks,” Malfoy mumbles, sounding sleepy and warm and affectionate.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I’m still half-dressed,” Harry points out, even though he’d really rather not get up right now either—Malfoy naked and warm on top of him is something he doesn’t want to stop. But he’d only ever gotten halfway out of his trousers, and now they’re hiked down on his thighs, fairly uncomfortable now that he’s not distracted by arousal.

“Are you telling me to move?” Malfoy asks petulantly, and Harry laughs. Malfoy’s a bit of an arse even when he’s under the Amortentia, isn’t he?

“Yes,” Harry says, “Get off.”

“Fine,” Malfoy huffs, rolling to the side so he can stand. “But you’re coming too,” he says, waiting for Harry to pull his trousers back up before dragging him to the bedroom, and then once they’re there he corners Harry against the doorframe and kisses him, slow and sweet.

God. It makes Harry’s heart flutter in his chest, and suddenly all he can think about is how he wants to keep being close to Malfoy like this, _wants_ to hold him and kiss him and fuck him, again and again—

He doesn’t want this to stop.

Fuck.

He sighs, leaning his head back against the doorframe and closing his eyes.

“Look at me,” Malfoy says, and when Harry does, his eyes are serious. “That was so— _good_ , Harry, you don’t even know.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, slowly grinning.

Malfoy smiles too. “I missed you.”

At that, something inside Harry starts to hurt, and he looks away. “You didn’t,” he says quietly. “It’s… it’s just the potion.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Malfoy insists, pulling him over to the bed, Summoning his own pants and pulling them on as Harry strips down to his boxer shorts.

“You won’t, in the morning,” Harry says, and God, why does that make him feel _sad?_ He’s not on the Amortentia, he shouldn’t be feeling like _he’s_ the one that will miss Malfoy when this is over.

But he does anyway.

“Harry,” Malfoy says then, sitting on the bed, pulling him down too. “I… fuck.”

“What?” Harry asks, frowning at the distress he sees then on Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy averts his eyes. “I miss you every time,” he says, “Every fucking time, okay?”

“But—”

“Just trust me,” Malfoy tells him. Then he slumps backwards onto the bed, hitting the mattress with a thump. “I’m going to hate myself in the morning.”

Hesitantly, Harry lays down next to him. “You shouldn’t.”

Really, Harry’s the one who should hate himself for this. Because it’s slowly dawning on him that he’s taken advantage of Malfoy being in this state, because Malfoy’s high on the potion and Harry—Harry isn’t.

And Malfoy doesn’t know.

Malfoy _can’t_ know.

Fuck.

Harry supposes it’s fitting, then, that the thought of Malfoy leaving in the morning, of him simply giving Harry the cold shoulder again, makes Harry’s insides burn.

It’s his own fault, really. He never should have let Malfoy take that potion again.

He never should have done this.

He turns and buries his face in the soft skin of Malfoy’s shoulder, and Malfoy loops an arm around him, pulling Harry close. “Harry?” he says quietly.

“Hm?” Harry asks. He looks up at Malfoy, guilt swimming in his veins, but is surprised to find vulnerability in Malfoy’s eyes.

“It’s just,” Malfoy says quietly. “You haven’t—you haven’t said it yet.”

“Said what?” Harry asks, blinking.

Malfoy’s face goes all flushed, and he looks away. “You know. You always say it. When—when we’re on the Amortentia, I mean.”

“I—” Harry starts, wanting to say, _I don’t know_ , but—but suddenly he _does_ know. Oh. 

Malfoy wants him to say that he loves him.

The realization hits Harry, and he swallows thickly, because—because he shouldn’t _lie_ , not about this, but on the other hand Malfoy’s expecting him to—

And really, is it so far from the truth in this moment? 

Fuck.

The reality of all this is that he feels more connected to Malfoy right now than he has with _anyone_ since Will left. He’s fucked Malfoy and kissed him and touched him, all because he wanted to, because Malfoy looking at him like he’s the center of his world leaves him feeling breathless, like he never wants it to stop.

The only thing is that Malfoy—the _real_ Malfoy—hates him. And to be honest, even though he wouldn’t say he hates him back any longer, that doesn’t mean Harry always _likes_ being around Malfoy off the potion either. Malfoy’s very good at getting on his nerves.

But maybe, just maybe, is it possible to be falling for this version of Malfoy and not the other one?

Even though he has to admit they’re probably one and the same.

Harry looks at Malfoy, whose grey eyes are wide and nervous, and he sighs, chest full of turmoil. 

“I mean… you don’t _have_ to,” Malfoy says, looking disappointed despite his words.

“You never do it, anyway,” Harry points out—it’s something he’s wondered about from the beginning.

“It’s.” Malfoy sighs. “It’s hard for me, to say things like that.”

“Oh,” Harry says, reaching up to touch Malfoy’s cheek, warmth filling his chest when Malfoy gives him a small smile. “That’s okay, then.”

“Okay,” Malfoy says.

Harry kisses him just once, heart racing in his chest, and then all at once it tumbles out of him. “Love you.”

God.

Maybe he means it. Maybe he doesn’t.

But the wide grin Malfoy gives him then makes it impossible to regret, and Harry can’t help kissing him again, even though he’s terrified of the emotions spiraling around in his chest.

“Thank you,” Malfoy whispers, and God—

Just for a moment, Harry lets himself stop worrying, and he shuts his eyes and curls up in Malfoy’s arms.

\--

There’s something freeing in having completely fucking given up on oneself.

Draco wakes up half an hour before the Amortentia goes off. He allows himself to admire Harry, sleeping beside him, glasses off and mouth partially open, before forcing himself to leave.

He doesn’t want to have to look him in the eyes as he walks away again.

It’s a poor decision, because even as he’s Apparating, his lungs are screaming at him to stay, to hold Harry for just a bit longer—but in just a short while Harry will be Potter again, and Draco will feel nothing for him.

It’ll be better this way.

It’ll be better even though he crawls into his bed at his flat, nearly in tears at the thought that soon he won’t love Harry any longer, at the thought of not feeling happy again until the next time he takes the potion, and Merlin, _fuck_ —

All at once, the potion leaves him, and then the only thing he feels is that damned emptiness.

That, and a small pang of loneliness—the tiniest, smallest wish that he could crawl back into Potter’s bed, even though Potter won’t want him there.

The tiniest part of him wishes he could have stayed.

Next time, he thinks, next time he’ll have Potter come here instead. Maybe it will be easier then, to have Potter leave instead of Draco doing it.

Shit. He’s already thinking in ‘ _next time_ ’s.

He’s fucked, isn’t he?

\--

Harry goes about his morning, filled with guilt, thinking of Malfoy, thinking of falling for him, thinking of how he’d taken advantage.

He should say no, next time.

He really, really should.

But he’s terrified, because deep down, he knows he doesn’t want to.

So he gives himself three rules.

One: he isn’t to initiate anything to do with the Amortentia. Malfoy has to do it. If Malfoy stops doing it—well, then Harry is out of luck, isn’t he?

Two: he will not call Malfoy ‘Draco’ unless Malfoy’s on the Amortentia, because the Draco Harry is falling in love with and the Malfoy he sees at work every day are far from the same. He can’t let anything slip.

Three: he’s not taking the Amortentia again. He can’t.

But Malfoy can’t know.

\--

Draco lies in bed midday the following Saturday afternoon, staring at the ceiling and thinking of the war, of the aftermath.

It’s not something he’s thought about in a long time. Honestly, he mostly considered himself to be over it years ago. He met Astoria and began researching her disease, and then from then on, he didn’t worry about anything else.

But thinking of the war now, of the guilt and shame he felt afterwards as his morals slowly righted themselves, of the fear shooting up his spine when people shouted curses at him years ago in Diagon—it still feels like a punch in his gut.

He supposes it’s the type of thing that people never truly get over.

He brings it up to Harry later that night, having taken the Amortentia for the second time this week. That’s all he’ll allow himself—twice a week, no more. This is already fucking unhealthy as it is. He doesn’t need to get— _addicted_ to it.

“But you’re not fixating on it, right? The war?” Harry asks, curled up next to him in Draco’s bed. They come here occasionally, when Draco lets his guard down, and he has to admit it’s nice to have someone in the flat besides himself. “That’s what I used to do—still do, sometimes,” Harry continues. “I did it less with—with Will, but after he left… I guess it’s just what my mind always goes back to.” He shrugs. 

Harry told him about Will, about the ex-boyfriend he proposed to. On the Amortentia, it makes Draco incredibly jealous, but even off the potion he can admit that the other man was stupid for leaving. Harry is an incredibly attentive lover, he’s come to find out. He used to think him oblivious and simple-minded, back in school, but it turns out that when Harry cares about you—well, he doesn’t miss things, that’s for sure.

Like how Draco always wants to be held after sex, or how he always takes tea with his dinner instead of pumpkin juice on the nights they eat together, or how he’s actually rather fascinated with Muggle telly but pretends not to be.

Harry holds him close on Amortentia nights; he puts the kettle on and turns on his magically tuned telly without asking, sitting with Draco, talking with him, and—it’s probably the closest thing Draco’s ever had to an actual relationship.

Before Astoria, there was only a brief fling with Pansy that ended before it even really began, then some fumbling around with Theo Nott in the Hogwarts showers. And then there’s Bentley’s, of course, but that’s no more than casual sex.

Of course, whenever Draco’s off the Amortentia, he thinks back on their silly, domestic moments and scoffs. Partially because it’s much too sappy for him to be thinking about when the potion isn’t flowing through his veins, and, well.

Partially because he doesn’t think he deserves it anyway—all of Harry Potter’s attention, fixed only on him. There are far better partners out there for Potter—not Will, obviously, but others—and it’s not just because Draco used to be a Death Eater either. Draco is prickly and moody and sometimes doesn’t even want to touch people he _likes_. He’s not a good partner, not at all, and the only reason he and Astoria worked is because she didn’t want him to touch her anyway.

The Amortentia makes him more affectionate than he thinks he’d ever be on his own, which is a shame—maybe if he was the person he is on Amortentia all the time, he’d actually be worthwhile to pursue.

But he’s not. Instead he’s just tired and grumpy and—now that Astoria’s gone—alone.

So he takes what he can get. He takes the Amortentia, and he takes Potter’s time, pleads for it nearly, and Merlin, how pitiful he’s become, pitiful and helpless.

He thinks the nights with Harry might be helping. Slowly, Draco’s becoming less depressed, less empty on the days when he goes without the potion, though he knows it’s probably because he looks forward so bloody much to the nights when he _does_ have Harry—but inevitably, those nights will have to end someday.

He doesn’t want to think about that.

So he doesn’t.

“I’m not fixating on the war, no,” Draco tells him, curling closer to him on the bed. 

And he isn’t. He’s fixating on Harry.

“Well, good,” Harry says, absent-mindedly stroking Draco’s hair, and Draco leans into the touch. “Fixating is unhealthy, or so Hermione says.”

Ha. Of course it is. “You said you still do it?”

“Sometimes,” Harry says, and sighs. “Sirius died in the Death department, you know.”

“Oh,” Draco says, feeling a sudden pang of shock, his brow creasing. “Your—your godfather, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, mouth twisting. “I loved him. And he’s gone, and every day—every day I walk by the Veil, and sometimes it’s all I can think about.”

“I can imagine,” Draco says, vaguely horrified by the fact that Harry’s chosen to work somewhere with so much history. He actually _had_ noticed him avoiding the Veil, and wondered why. 

He’ll have to take care not to push him too close to it in the future—that is, if he cares enough about hurting Harry’s feelings in the future to think of doing so. He sighs. Thinking about not loving him always makes Draco’s head hurt.

“It’s all right,” Harry tells him. “Sometimes lately, I’ll walk by, and—and I’ve started to feel at peace with it.”

“I think you’re stronger than I am,” Draco admits eventually, thinking of the state he left the Manor in, half-blocked off. “I just avoid everything.”

“We’re just different, I think,” Harry says. “Fixating isn’t any better. Like—like how I fixated on you in sixth year, and. Well. You know how that turned out.” With a gentle finger, he traces one of the scars on Draco’s bare chest, regret in his eyes.

“To be fair, I _was_ attempting to murder the Headmaster that year,” Draco says quietly, shivering at Harry’s touch. “And I tried to Crucio you.”

“But you didn’t,” Harry says, and shrugs. “I’m sorry, though. For this. I never got to say it.”

Draco covers Harry’s hand with his own. “Don’t apologize. I’ve already forgiven you,” he says, and it’s true, isn’t it? Even off the potion. “Anyway—you were fixating on me, hm?” He grins slowly.

Harry blushes. “I thought you were up to something,” he says, and Draco snickers. “I _did_.”

“And that was all?” Draco asks, teasing. “Sounds more like you fancied me.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Harry insists. “Really. Not that—not that I don’t think you’re attractive, but I just… didn’t notice back then, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Draco says, swallowing, all of the fun suddenly falling away. 

Because he would’ve died rather than admit it, but even back then he wanted Harry to like him.

“Draco? What’s wrong?” Harry asks, sitting up slightly, and Draco takes a moment to admire him, his bright eyes and the sparse, soft hair on his chest. 

“It’s nothing,” Draco tells him.

But Harry is nothing if persistent. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Draco sighs. “Fine. I…” he starts, lowering his voice. “I wanted you. Just—just a bit.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his eyes going all wide. “Wait—really?”

Shutting his eyes, Draco rolls onto his back, because he really _is_ going to regret this in the morning. “I shouldn’t tell you about this.”

“Sorry,” Harry says quickly, and Draco shakes his head. “I know, I know, you tell me not to apologize, but—I feel bad for asking you things you don’t want to say.”

“Sometimes I wish we loved each other all the time,” Draco says, then snaps his mouth shut, because he _hadn’t_ meant to say that, it just—it just came out. But it’s true. If they loved each other all the time, he wouldn’t have to worry about every word like this, about how Harry will feel once he’s off the Amortentia.

He won’t have to hate himself every time the potion fades away, hate himself for spilling his secrets to someone who used to be his worst enemy.

But Harry just hugs him closer, and thank Merlin they’re still on the potion. “Yeah,” Harry says, sounding just a bit sad. “Me too.”

\--

Harry’s caught off guard when he walks into work and realizes that today is the last day of their Death department rotation.

He’s glad to be done with the department, he thinks. Thank God they don’t have to do presentations on their work—Ron said that was his least favorite feature of Auror training, and Harry thinks he’d have to agree. 

Despite barely getting anything done in the past two months, he thinks being here was probably good for him. At the very least, he no longer is filled with rage or sorrow or fear when thinking of death, and more than that—he’s moving on.

He’ll choose Prophecy next, he thinks. He intensely hopes that will be more interesting.

As he finishes writing his last set of notes, he’s vaguely aware of Malfoy next to him, nose deep in a book. Malfoy’s still reading about blood curses instead of death, of course. Privately, Harry doesn’t think Malfoy gives half an arse about the Unspeakable curriculum—it’s all just a means to an end, a way to help Astoria.

It occurs to Harry that deep in the back of his mind, he wishes Malfoy cared as much about him as he does his ex-wife.

But that’s silly, isn’t it? Malfoy never _really_ cared about him anyway.

That burns, and he finishes the rest of his work in a sullen mood. He thought he would be sad to no longer be so close to Malfoy at work, but instead he’s relieved to reach the end of the day, to stand up and walk away from him—he no longer has to work so hard to pretend he doesn’t care. Because it _has_ been hard, being next to Malfoy every day, not being able to touch him or even really talk to him. 

He won’t have to deal with the disappointment when Malfoy arrives at work in the morning and promptly ignores him, despite sometimes having been curled up in Harry’s arms a mere few hours ago.

It’s fine, Harry thinks. It’ll be better not to see him more often.

Then why is sadness slowly starting to sting in his throat?

Fuck.

He walks into the Ministry Atrium, heading toward the nearest Floo, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” says Malfoy’s voice, and Harry’s turns around with his heart in his throat. “Do you… do you want to come over tonight?”

Harry bites his lip. “It’s already been twice this week,” he says—Malfoy told him weeks ago about that self-enforced rule, and Harry agreed wholeheartedly, as twice is far more than enough lapses in judgement for one week, let alone more.

Malfoy sighs. “You’re right,” he says. “Never mind.”

He walks away then, and Harry watches him go, wishing he could call him back, but he _can’t_. Malfoy has to be the one to initiate it, or else it makes Harry the worst sort of person, and he’ll be even more guilty than usual, watching Malfoy dose himself while Harry secretly Vanishes his own Amortentia.

He goes home alone, chest hurting. But the moment he arrives at his flat, his throat seizes, because every single room in this Goddamned place reminds him of Malfoy—his sofa, his kitchen, his bed. Even his bathroom, as there’d been one, blissful time where they’d showered together, Malfoy grinning, soaping him up, dropping to his knees and sucking Harry off after, even as Harry complained that this was just going to get them dirty again, _oh_ —

Harry stands in his sitting room and squeezes his eyes shut.

Then he forces himself to move, walking to the kitchen and putting the kettle on. He waits for it idly, leaning against the counter, considering eating dinner but not really having the appetite for it.

And then there’s a crack of Apparition in his living room, and he sighs in relief, knowing even that it’s Malfoy without even checking.

Malfoy walks in, looking distressed, his hair rumpled. “I changed my mind,” he says, pulling the potion vial from his pocket. “I need you tonight.”

Harry stares at him, feeling strangely lost. “You don’t need me,” he says, turning to pull out the shot glasses from the cabinet anyway. “You need the Amortentia.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Malfoy says shortly, snatching the glasses from his grasp, and Harry’s teeth hurt.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says quietly, even though it’s not the same, not at all.

“I mean, we’d never be doing this without the Amortentia,” Malfoy says, measuring out the potion. “Ridiculous, wouldn’t it be?”

The kettle goes off behind Harry, so he has an excuse to turn around and hide his face. He wants to scream. 

Instead he takes the kettle off the burner and pretends to drink the potion.

\--

It was a small enough detail that Draco nearly missed it.

The discreet flick of a wand in Harry’s hand, moving in a shape that he _thinks_ was a Vanishing spell. He can’t be certain.

He puzzles over it as Harry bustles about making tea, smiling at him, asking him, “Want a cuppa?”

Draco nods wordlessly, smiling back, because oh, nothing will ever be better than being close to Harry, especially the first moments after he’s taken the potion. But still, the spell Harry cast niggles at the back of his mind, as they sit down at the table, as Harry’s hand brushes his when he hands Draco a mug, when Draco pulls him closer and kisses him, just once.

It won’t hurt to ask, right?

“Harry,” Draco says, leaning back again, “Did you—earlier, did you Vanish something?”

He’s not expecting Harry to blanch, face so pale he nearly looks like a ghost. “I, er, yeah—the, er, sometimes the steam from the kettle sets off the Fire Alarm Charms, so I like to Vanish it before…”

Harry continues on, but Draco isn’t listening.

Because Harry is lying.

“No,” Draco says, interrupting Harry’s bumbled excuse, distress starting to spin its web in his lungs. Why… why is Harry _lying?_

Harry stops talking, clicks his mouth shut, and Draco gets the sense that something is very, very wrong.

“Tell me,” Draco says, terrified, staring straight at him, at those green eyes he adores so much—“Tell me the truth.”

Harry looks down at the table, and there is torment on his face. 

He closes his eyes. 

“The potion,” Harry says finally, quietly, dully. “I Vanished the potion.”

It takes Draco a moment for him to realize what Harry means—for a second he nearly goes to pull out the vial he always keeps in his robe pockets now, because he didn’t _think_ he’d seen it go missing, but then he gets it—

Harry Vanished _his_ potion, the part he was supposed to drink, oh _Merlin_ —

Harry’s not on the Amortentia.

Draco can’t speak. He looks at him in disbelief, because why would Harry, _his_ Harry, do something like this?

But… but Harry was never his at all, was he?

“What the _fuck?_ ” he says, and then anger erupts in his chest all at once, choking him—and before he even knows it, he’s standing up and striding toward Harry—and then he slaps him. 

The sound of it is loud in the small kitchen. Harry’s cheek is pink after, his eyes guilty as he reaches up to touch the mark. “I deserved that,” Harry says quietly.

“Yes you _did_ ,” Draco says, glaring at him. “You utter _prick!_ ”

The Amortentia won’t let him do it again—deep down, the Amortentia is telling him insistently that he loves him, that he shouldn’t hurt him. 

But he wants to.

Instead he stalks away, into the living room, flopping onto the sofa with his hands clenched into fists. He doesn’t want Harry to follow, but Harry does anyway, and Draco can’t bear to look at him, even as Harry hesitantly sits down on the opposite end of the sofa.

“How long?” Draco asks.

“What?”

“Oh, come _on_ , Potter.” He doesn’t deserve to be called Harry. Not now. “This wasn’t the first time, was it?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry hang his head. “No.”

“Then,” Draco grits out, “How. Long?”

“You’ll be angry,” Harry says, drawing in on himself, and the damned Amortentia makes Draco want to go and hold him. But he won’t.

“I’m already fucking angry,” Draco snaps, trying to hide the weakness that wants to make him tremble, the awful hole slowly forming in his heart. “Just tell me.”

Harry swallows sharply. “After the second time,” he says. “After the second time, I stopped taking it.”

“That long—” Draco cuts himself off, staring at Harry, and he _does_ tremble now.

Because more than angry, he is devastated.

He told Harry so many things, so many fucking _secrets_ , things he would have never said aloud if he’d known Harry wasn’t dosed—things like _I missed you, before_ , things that make his throat close up with regret over having said.

It was all a lie, wasn’t it?

The worst part is that he thought Harry—he thought Harry loved him back, and of _course_ it would’ve been the potion, but the fact that Harry’s just been, what, pretending? This _whole fucking time_ —

“Say something,” Harry says, pleads, and Draco realizes he’s been silent for several minutes.

He clenches his teeth together. “I hate you,” he spits out, and in that moment he _does_ , just a bit, before the Amortentia tries to wash it away.

Harry shrinks into himself. “I know.”

And that hurts _worse_ , because—because Draco knows that when the potion fades away this time, he _will_ hate Harry, more than he ever has before.

So much that he’ll never want to take the potion again.

He’ll never… love Harry again.

The hole in his chest tears itself wide open, and he gasps for air—it’s like when Astoria left, only _worse_ , and he can’t bear it, it _hurts_ —

He supposes this is what heartbreak feels like.

“Draco—” Harry is on him, gathering him into his arms.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” Draco says, but he’s pressing his face into Harry’s chest anyway because this is the last time, right? The last time he’ll ever feel like this?

He doesn’t _want_ it to stop, he doesn’t want to stop _loving him_ —

“Please,” he says, gasps, “Make it stop hurting.”

There is anguish on Harry’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling him closer, “I’m so sorry.”

Too many emotions are clawing for dominance in Draco’s brain, hurt and love and betrayal and heartbreak and anger. Eventually it’s too much, and he starts to go numb inside, numb to what is happening, numb to anything besides Harry’s body touching his.

Time starts to lose meaning. Somehow they end up in Harry’s bed, Draco hugging him so tightly his arms almost hurt, because maybe if he just fucking tries hard enough he won’t have to let go.

“How long do we have?” he asks, his voice scratchy as if he’s been crying, even though he hasn’t.

“A while,” Harry says, the guilt obvious in his voice, in his face, in his shoulders. “You should get some sleep.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Draco mutters. “Just you.”

“Draco—” Harry’s voice breaks. “Draco, I lo—”

“ _No_ ,” Draco growls, pushing himself up to look at him. “ _Don’t_.”

He doesn’t want to hear it if it’s a lie.

Harry’s eyes go shuttered. “Okay.”

Draco lies back down. At some point he _does_ fall asleep, for only an hour or two, but when he forces himself awake Harry is still lying there, looking at him. “You should sleep too,” Draco mumbles. “You’re going to be a wreck in the morning.”

Harry laughs. It’s hollow. “I’ll be a wreck in the morning anyway.”

Draco takes a trembling breath. “Me too.”

“I’ll be worse,” Harry says, voice cracking. “You’re going to hate me so much.”

“Probably,” Draco admits, feeling guilty for it in this moment, even though Harry’s the one that’s done wrong, isn’t he?

But it still feels awful to make Harry sad.

“Why do you care anyway?” Draco asks, tucking his head into the crook of Harry’s shoulder.

“I mean—” Harry sucks in a breath. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“The sex,” Draco surmises.

Harry shakes his head. “No, not just that—the company, I suppose, and… I dunno, I like talking to you.”

That makes Draco feel warm inside. 

It almost, almost makes him forget the fact that Harry’s betrayed him. “Potter?”

“Hm?”

Draco stretches out beside him. “Fuck me.”

“What—” Harry stares at him, eyes wide. “No… Draco, no.”

“Why not?” Draco asks. “You’ve done it loads of times with me dosed up, haven’t you? Why does it make a difference now? Because I finally know?”

Harry hangs his head.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable in front of me,” Draco says, “Even when _I_ can’t help doing the same in front of you.”

“I just,” Harry starts, biting his lip. “I don’t know. It just—it feels wrong, somehow.”

Draco climbs on top of him then, knees on either side of his hips, bracing his hands over Harry’s shoulders. “Hypocrite,” he mutters, leaning his head down, knocking his forehead against Harry’s.

Harry shakes his head rapidly. “I don’t want to because you’re _sad_.”

“So?” Draco frowns at him.

Harry flips them over, surprising Draco, making his breath hitch because now Harry’s on top of _him_. “I won’t do that to you,” Harry says, “Not now.”

But when Draco leans his head up, at least Harry kisses him anyway, lips soft as they move against Draco’s. Draco pulls him closer, relishing the feel of Harry’s weight on top of him, the feel of Harry’s shoulders through his shirt. “Mm,” he sighs, mouthing at Harry’s jaw. “You sure we can’t fuck?”

“God,” Harry mumbles, and when he lifts his head to look at Draco, his eyes have gone half-lidded with lust. “We shouldn’t.”

They do anyway.

Harry doesn’t fuck him, but he does shove their trousers down, slicking up both of their cocks so they can rut against each other. Draco ends up gasping, his hands under Harry’s shirt, shuddering as he comes between their stomachs.

“I’ll miss that,” Draco says later, hand sticky after having wanked Harry until he came with a groan. Harry waves his hand and wandlessly spells them clean, and Draco can’t help but shudder at the feel of Harry’s magic washing over him. He laughs. “That too.”

“You’re so—” Harry bites his lip, looking like he’s hiding a smile.

“What?” Draco asks, yawning as he pulls his trousers back up, curling into Harry.

“Never mind,” Harry says, righting his own clothing.

Draco wants to object, but he’s also very tired, so he pulls the covers over them and falls into a fitful sleep.

\--

Harry wakes at five in the morning, barely twenty minutes left on the timer he set before drifting off.

The timer that tells him when Draco will stop loving him.

He turns to look at Draco, peaceful next to him, his usually fierce expression softened in sleep.

Oh, how Harry loves him.

He couldn’t _tell_ him that—he couldn’t, because very soon Draco will hate him, and Harry wouldn’t put it past Draco to use it against him.

It’s better and worse than when Will left him all at once. Better, because he knows it was never real in the first place, and worse—

Worse because it feels like something that’s been building for years, something Harry didn’t know he wanted until it happened. And now Harry wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything, or anyone.

He wants Draco.

Draco blinks his eyes open sleepily, as if the strength of Harry’s thoughts have woken him. Slowly, he smiles at Harry. Then he goes more alert and his eyes widen as he sits up, catching sight of Harry’s timer. “Fuck,” he says quietly.

Seventeen minutes.

“You can… you can leave if you’d like,” Harry says shakily, feeling a desperate sort of numbness start to settle over him.

“I don’t… want to,” Draco says, his mouth trembling. “Harry—”

Draco goes to hold him then, folding his arms around him, and it’s only then that Harry realizes he’s crying.

God, what has he _done?_

“Harry, oh Harry,” Draco repeats. “ _Fuck._ ” He raises his wand, casting a Summoning spell, and Harry doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he sees the vial of Amortentia come flying into the room.

“What—Draco, _no_ ,” Harry says, shuddering a sob, snatching it from him.

“Why _not_ ,” Draco says, trying to grab it back, forcing Harry to hold it as far away as he can.

“Because—because it’s not _real_ , Draco,” Harry says, distraught, his chest heaving. 

It’s not real, and yet it _is_ , because Harry loves him—and those feelings aren’t going to go away anytime soon.

“So, what? You _want_ it to end?” Draco glares at him, trembling.

Draco is scared, Harry realizes. It makes sense. The whole point of this in the first place was because Draco wanted to hide from all of his feelings—and here he is, trying to chase them away with the Amortentia.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and wandlessly Vanishes the Amortentia vial.

“You—” Draco stares at him, shocked, as Harry blinks his eyes open. “You Vanished it.”

Harry nods, even as misery builds thick in his throat. “You shouldn’t hide anymore,” he says quietly, feeling empty inside. “You shouldn’t hide from how you feel, and—and you hate me. You shouldn’t…” Tears leak down his cheeks. “You shouldn’t love me anymore, if that’s not how you really feel.”

“Harry,” Draco says, his voice raw, eyes flicking to the timer. Eight minutes. “Come here.”

Harry goes. He folds himself into Draco, crying into his shirt, letting Draco rub his back, calm him. But he wipes his eyes after a moment. If these are the last few moments they have—he doesn’t want to waste them.

“You’re brilliant,” he tells Draco. “Do you know that?”

Draco stares at him, puzzled. “What?”

“You are,” Harry says. “And for what it’s worth—I want you to be happy.”

Laughing softly, painfully, Draco shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m going to be happy for a long time.”

Harry thinks of Draco, of the way sadness drags at his edges until he starts wasting away, of seeing him crying, long ago, over a bathroom sink. He aches for him. 

“Try?” Harry asks, leaning in to kiss him. “For me?”

“Maybe,” Draco says, kissing him back, tugging him closer.

“Please,” Harry says.

Draco’s breath hitches. “Okay.”

Thirty seconds.

“I’m going to miss you so fucking much,” Draco mumbles into his hair.

Harry wants to cry again. “You won’t—”

Draco cuts him off with a kiss, the softest one they’ve ever shared. “Let me pretend to love you,” he says, “Just for now.”

And Harry shudders a breath and kisses him back, even as his chest starts to split open.

Five seconds, four, three, two…

Harry pulls away then, terror threatening to eat him alive.

One.

Zero.

\--

Potter’s desk lamp shatters. Draco hasn’t let his magic slip like that in years, but he doesn’t fucking _care_ right now, he’s so _angry_. “You fucking _liar_.”

“I know,” Potter says, hanging his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Draco says, because fucking apologies don’t _mean_ anything—and then he lifts his fist and punches Potter in the jaw.

Potter lets him. He doesn’t even defend himself, the fucking prat, and the sick crack of Draco’s fist meeting his face makes Draco almost want to vomit.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Draco spits, watching as Potter winces in pain.

“I deserved that,” Potter mumbles, and Draco wants to shake him, because this—this isn’t the Potter he remembers, the Potter who would get angry at him with the slightest provocation, the Potter who was always ready to fight him.

Draco _wants_ to fight, he wants to fight because it’s the only thing left that will let him forget.

He needs to forget. He needs to forget fucking _Potter_ , the way Potter cried in his arms, the way he kissed him so softly Draco almost could have believed Potter was in love with him—the way he looks now, as if he’s going to just take whatever Draco throws at him.

That’s not how this is supposed to _be_.

Draco wants to scream.

Hating him isn’t supposed to _hurt_ like this.

He shoves off the bed, stumbling into Apparition, whirling away, landing dizzily in his flat. He loathes Potter more than he’s ever loathed anyone, even Voldemort.

Because Potter makes him want to feel again, even though it was all a fucking lie—and now he can’t stop.

\--

Harry wonders in the early hours of the morning, lying on Ron and Hermione’s couch where he’s barely moved from the entire weekend, how much trouble he would get in if he simply… stopped going to work.

He supposes he’d never be able to get another Ministry job again. He doesn’t really care. He didn’t honestly want to work anyway, except that Ron and Hermione worry too much when he gets depressed, and he gets depressed when he doesn’t _do_ things with his life.

So he supposes he has to go to work this morning. He’s worried them enough, he thinks, by stumbling into their apartment with tears running down his face, a bruise blooming on his jaw.

He couldn’t tell them what happened. It’s too much, and the fucking guilt is still eating him alive, even now.

“Seems like he got dumped, at least to me,” Ron said on Saturday night, his voice floating in from the kitchen when they thought Harry was sleeping.

“But Ron—surely he would’ve mentioned it?” Hermione said dubiously. “If he was dating again, after Will?”

“Would he have, though?”

They know him too well.

Harry slowly peels himself from the couch and scrawls a quick note to them assuring them that he’s fine before Flooing home to get ready.

Walking into the Ministry is easier than he thought it would be.

Seeing the back of Draco’s head down the hall in front of him as Harry walks into the Department of Mysteries is hard.

He can’t focus all through the choice of their new rotations, only vaguely recollecting afterwards what he wrote in the first blank— _Prophecy_.

And to Prophecy he goes.

He tries not to look back as he crosses through the time room to the Hall of Prophecy, tries not to look over his shoulder at Draco, who’s being introduced to his new supervisor.

But he fails.

He knows Draco sees him looking, can see it in the way he immediately tenses up. But Draco won’t meet his eyes.

In fact, Draco refuses to speak to him for weeks.


	3. Truth

“All right there, Unspeakable Malfoy?” asks Unspeakable Ford as he passes Draco’s cubicle. He’s the head of the Time department, though in Draco’s opinion he doesn’t always act like it. At times he seems far too skittish about his decisions, which tends to exasperate Draco, as he prefers a much firmer hand in a leader.

At least it’s better than Hughes, better than the dankness of the Death department. Draco swears he lost a couple of years of his life working in that dark room. Time at least is brighter, if not sometimes _too_ bright, with all of the glittering baubles floating around in the main workspace. Draco is always grateful to retreat to his cubicle after being stuck in there for any amount of time.

Still, the whole place makes him anxious somehow, for reasons he can’t put his finger on. Maybe because the repercussions for disturbing the time-space continuum are incredibly high, or because unlike the Death department, people actually _expect_ him to perform well here. Maybe it’s because fiddling about with instruments of time reminds him of trying and failing, over and over, to fix the Vanishing cabinet, Voldemort’s threats dripping down his neck like sweat.

Maybe it’s because they absolutely refuse to let him work on anything to do with Astoria’s curse. “Oh, no, no, no,” Ford said immediately when Draco first brought it up. “We don’t work on personal subjects in this department. It’s far too tempting, and too dangerous… Don’t you think, at least?”

Draco very nearly considered quitting at that point.

But he didn’t.

After all, Astoria is gone, and what would he even do with himself if not for work?

Thank Merlin the research is far more interesting than the little they had to work on in the Death department, so he’s at least able to immerse himself in it fairly quickly. He’s assigned to a project that requires using fiddly little instruments to measure the speed of certain spells, then analyzing the data and correlating the time it takes for each one to be cast to the spell attributes. It’s heavy in Arithmancy, which he adores, so it really shouldn’t come as such a surprise that he’s actually enjoying himself.

Except that in the back of his mind, there’s always the faint whisper of a thought that he’s wasting time, that he could be working on finding Astoria a cure instead, not faffing about with golden-colored trinkets.

Time. She’s running out of it.

And even further back in his brain, crammed down in a tiny box he tries to keep locked, is the thought that he’d really be enjoying his work more if Potter were here.

But he cuts that thought off before it ever fully forms. 

He won’t allow himself to waste valuable time pining for Potter like an idiot. 

Even if he wants to.

\--

Harry thinks he has to be terribly unlucky to have chosen the two dullest departments of all time for his first two rotations.

“You mustn’t touch the prophecies,” the Keeper of the Hall, Unspeakable Moore, reminds him for about the thousandth time—despite Harry having told her his very first day that he _knows_ that. 

He gets the feeling that she’s had one too many underlings disobey her command.

One will go mad if they dare to touch one, or so they say. Unspeakable Moore seems half-mad herself, if he’s to be honest, but he keeps that to himself.

She leads him further into the stacks of prophecies, which are barely half in number as they’d been the first time Harry visited. Moore ostensibly blames Harry for that—which, yeah, is fair considering the DA knocked down several of the shelves and broke probably thousands of prophecies, but it’s still a bit annoying that it’s taken weeks for Harry to get in Moore’s good graces because of that.

Which, it _was_ his fault, pretty much, even it was only to get away from the Death Eaters. Still, he’s extremely glad when she finally stops eyeing him with a suspicious glare every time he goes near the Hall on his own.

Finally, they stop walking, coming to rest in front of an empty spot on one of the shelves. “Here,” Moore proclaims.

Harry stares at the space in front of them, unremarkable except for being a tad bit dusty. “What’s supposed to—”

“Shh. Wait.”

So Harry waits.

And waits.

He waits so long he nearly has to excuse himself to go to the loo, but then right as he’s about to ask, a prophecy orb appears—just suddenly sitting there on the shelf with no fanfare, like it had been there the whole time.

“Time is eleven forty-two,” Moore says, scribbling on a piece of paper with her quill. “Orb is”—she casts a quick Measuring Charm—“eight and a half-inches across, completely spherical, and not lighted from within.”

Then she puts away her wand and quill and starts to walk away.

Harry blinks at her as he follows. “Is that… _it?_ ”

“Yes,” Moore says shortly. “Of course, lad. What else would we do? We’re not to listen to them.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Right.”

Moore takes him to her office, where she finally shows him the paperwork to record a new prophecy, as she’s been promising to do for his entire rotation. “It can take months for a prophecy to appear, you know,” she tells him, also for about the seventh time. “You’ve gotten lucky. Maybe you’ll be fit to take over for me when I retire after all.” Then she cackles.

Disappointed and faintly unnerved, Harry studies the sparse forms she gives him, half-heartedly committing the contents to memory before filing them away. It’s not likely he’ll ever have to fill one out on his own. He’s getting out of this department as quickly as he can.

For now all he can do is continue with his utterly dry task of cataloguing every single prophecy in the hall to ensure it’s still there. “Sometimes they move,” Moore told him when she assigned him the task, “Or disappear. You’ll see.”

She said that weeks ago. He’s yet to find one out of place, and he’s at number 3074. 

It’s occurred to him that this may possibly be her revenge on him for losing all the prophecies years ago. He wouldn’t put it past her.

After work is over, he Apparates home, shivering from being in the cold Hall for so long. Then he changes out of his Unspeakable robes and Floos to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner.

He’s been spending more and more of his time there lately, even though imposing his presence on them so often is a habit he tried to kick years ago, and mostly succeeded at. They’re married now, and truly, he wants to give them their space. Still, whenever he’s lonely or scared or hurt, they’re the ones he turns to, and he’s grateful that they still welcome him in with open arms.

“Of _course_ we do, Harry,” Hermione replied once when he said something to that effect. “You’re my—our—best friend.”

He knows that. But sometimes it still surprises him to hear it.

After Will left, Harry slept on their couch for so long he started to feel guilty about it. He’s trying not to do that again this time, forcing himself to sleep in his own bed—not that there really is a ‘ _this time_ ’. He and Draco never really broke up, did they? 

Because he and Draco were never together in the first place.

It’s unfortunate that no one’s told Harry’s heart that.

Being around Ron and Hermione helps to make him feel human again, just the slightest bit.

But when he goes home, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling—when he closes his eyes, pulling the covers up around him—all he can think of is Draco, and how much he misses having him in his bed.

Hermione figures it out eventually. It’s Harry’s fault—Ron mentions seeing Draco’s name in the papers, some gossip column about Draco’s divorce, and Harry jumps at the name before he can stop himself.

Later, as Harry helps Hermione wash dishes while Ron tidies up the rest of the house, Hermione asks him about it. “Have you seen Malfoy lately, then?”

Harry blinks at her, frightened. He’s not honestly sure he can even answer, as per the Unspeakable Oath.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hermione says, passing him a glass to spell dry. She always insists on washing things the Muggle way, claiming that spells don’t clean them nearly well enough, but evidently Hot-Air Charms work fine enough for her. “Harry… is he the one?”

Harry blinks at her. The _one_. “Er. What?”

“Oh no, I meant—” Hermione laughs a bit. “Not _that_ ‘the one’. I just meant… the one who seems to have broken your heart recently.”

Harry stares at her, nearly chokes. He has to hold onto the counter for balance. “H-how did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Hermione says, shrugging. “But I suspected. You’ve been acting similarly to how you did when—well, when Will left. Except you hadn’t said anything, which made me think it was someone you thought we wouldn’t approve of, and then you jumped earlier when Ron said his name…” She shuts the faucet off, having rinsed the last plate clean. “I just figured I’d ask.”

Harry nods, handing her the last couple dishes to be put away and moving over to their kitchen table so he can slump into a chair. Hermione follows, sitting next to him, putting a comforting hand on his arm.

“…I messed up,” he says eventually. “I can’t really say much”—and really, he doesn’t _want_ to admit that their whole bloody relationship was built on misuse of Amortentia, because he still feels like shit about it and Hermione would probably have his arse—“but… but I did something that made him stop trusting me, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Well,” Hermione says, mouth working as she attempts to settle on what to say. “It’s hard to tell without knowing exactly what’s going on, but. Have you apologized?”

Harry nods. “Er, well, I tried at least. He wasn’t really listening. Too—too angry.”

“Hm,” Hermione says. “It’s possible he needs some time to cool down before he can really accept your apology. But it’s also possible that he needs you to _show_ him that you’re trustworthy again, rather than just saying sorry.”

“How do I do that?” Harry asks, tracing a mug stain on the table with one finger. “He won’t speak to me, let alone stay in the same room long enough to prove anything.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, looking apologetic. “I wish I could tell you, but then again I don’t really know what’s going on, and I don’t know how Malfoy is anymore either…”

Harry nods, emptiness building slowly in his chest. This is all next to hopeless then, isn’t it? Because if Hermione can’t figure it out, then how is Harry supposed to?

“Is he… good for you?” Hermione asks quietly.

Harry nearly lets out a sharp laugh. They’re just as explosive around each other as they used to be, aren’t they? He thinks of bruises and arguing and fucking, wonders exactly why this _means_ so much to him when they’re obviously such a volatile combination.

But then he thinks of talking to Draco, really _talking_ , thinks of Draco’s soft eyes when he said he missed him, thinks of Draco just wanting to be held after sex, of how sad Draco used to look just before taking the Amortentia, of how happy he looked after…

He thinks of when Draco was faceless Trainee Four, of a time when they were in one of the Unspeakable breakrooms until three in the morning the night before an exam because Harry was struggling with some of the concepts. Draco made snarky comments the whole night, of course—and how Harry _missed_ that it was Draco under that Glamour, he doesn’t know—but Draco also helped him with barely an actual complaint until Harry actually felt confident with the subject.

Harry had hugged him after, just once, out of gratitude and stress and sleep-deprivation. He’d forgotten about it in the rush of betrayal he’d felt upon realizing Trainee Four was Draco, the man he’d hated for so many years.

But Draco had hugged him back.

And it was as warm and comforting as it’s ever been on the Amortentia.

“Harry?” Hermione prompts gently, and Harry realizes he’s been lost in thought for a very long time. Ron is there now too, sitting on his other side, watching him with worried eyes.

“I don’t know if he’s good for me,” Harry admits quietly. “But—but I care about him. A lot.”

He sees Ron mouth ‘ _who?_ ’ at Hermione, and Hermione makes a gesture that says _later_.

“Okay,” Hermione says. “Just be careful, Harry.”

Harry laughs quietly, slumping down until his head is on the cool surface of the wooden table. He’s been anything but careful through all of this.

But he’s fallen in love with Draco anyway.

\--

Four weeks after walking out of Harry Potter’s life, Draco finally writes Astoria.

 _Dear Astoria_ , he begins, and then stares at the parchment for five solid minutes. He nearly Vanishes it. He doesn’t even know where to start.

Finally he supposes he’ll start with the truth.

 _I hope you are well_ , he says, because he always does.

_I was extremely vexed with you for leaving like that. However, I was moreso vexed with myself for not listening to you in the past… But that too is in the past now, isn’t it?_

_I did take your advice and moved out of the Manor. I have a flat in London now, and yet I must admit I am still just as unhappy as I was living in the Manor, though for different reasons._

He pauses, chewing on the end of his quill—a disgusting habit, he knows, but he’s never been able to curb it—while he considers whether or not to tell her about Potter.

 _Unfortunately_ , he writes, _my time with Potter is no longer. There was somewhat of an attempt, but_ —

He crumples the paper up and throws it in the fire, watching as it burns into ash.

He can’t _lie_ to her. He’s made no real progress in healing, has he? His only real coping mechanisms have been ignoring the fuck out of how much he misses him and the fucking Amortentia.

Truly, he’d been using Potter just as much as Potter had been using him.

He sighs harshly through his nose and pulls out another piece of parchment. The letter he ends up penning, in the end, only barely describes his life as it is currently—there are so many things he feels he can’t tell her, now that they’ve separated.

It hurts.

He’s lonely.

He’s even lonelier still when he closes his eyes and immediately thinks of Potter’s face, of Potter laughing, going to hold him, kissing him.

Normally he pushes these thoughts away, but for just this moment he allows himself to think of it—of being with Potter so many times, of loving him more than Draco’s ever loved anyone.

He bloody misses it. He misses _him_.

If it was all the potion, why does he fucking _miss_ him so much?

He leans back in his desk chair. What was Potter thinking, all those times? What was Potter feeling, when he kissed him, fucked him, when Draco pushed him to say he loved him.

The smallest part of him wishes it wasn’t all a lie, that it could be real somehow. But he remembers the first time Potter was off the Amortentia, and it makes so much sense now, knowing that—why Potter was suddenly so nervous, why he was so reluctant to say those words when Draco asked him to—

It can only be a lie.

And even if it’s not… even if it’s not, Draco isn’t even the same person off the Amortentia, not really. He’s too jaded, too cruel, too broken up for a relationship, he—

He wouldn’t deserve being with Potter even if Potter actually wanted to.

He sends his letter to Astoria and wishes more than anything that things were different.

\--

_Show him you’re trustworthy,_ Hermione said. Harry thinks and thinks all through the next few weeks about how he could possibly do that, but he keeps coming up empty-handed. 

How do you make peace with someone who probably hates your guts?

He thought maybe all of this would get easier with time. But every time he catches a glimpse of Malfoy at work, his gut clenches, and it feels like he’s been stabbed through the heart all over again.

It feels like he misses Draco more every day.

Sometimes he sees him in his dreams, Draco lying next to him, holding his hand, a half smile on his face. “Don’t worry so much, love,” Draco says once.

That’s when Harry wakes up, of course. Draco would never say that—at least, not the Draco he knows, the one who’s so tightly bound up his feelings that Harry doesn’t even know if Draco remembers how to let loose at all.

The Amortentia didn’t improve anything either, he’s sure. All it’s done in the end is make Draco guarded and unreachable.

Harry just wanted to help.

Instead he’s now hopelessly in love with a man who won’t give him the time of the day.

Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he simply showed up at Draco’s flat. He’d probably get punched again.

He wonders if that would make him feel any better.

But no. That’s ridiculous. Even his reckless streak isn’t enough to push him to go there unprepared.

Then one night, an idea occurs to him—no, no. Draco would kill him. Except… Draco kind of wants to kill him anyway. What could it hurt?

So he sits down at his desk and starts to pen a letter.

It takes him a long time to figure out the right wording, and not long after he sends it, he starts wishing he could call the owl back and burn the damned thing. But the owl is probably halfway to France by now. All he can do is wait.

An hour later, he receives a response.

Heart in his mouth, he opens it.

_Harry,_

_I appreciate you writing me – I am doing well, thank you. My health has not improved terribly, but neither has it declined, so I consider myself lucky at the moment._

_As for making amends with Draco… well, that’s tricky. It’s a bit hard since I don’t know all of the details of your situation – and I understand why you wouldn’t want to tell me, of course. I suppose the best thing I can think of to say is that Draco has always been an eye-for-an-eye sort of person, especially when he feels he’s been wronged. He doesn’t often consider forgiveness unless he feels that the other person has truly experienced the pain he himself has been through—it’s part of why he no longer speaks to his father._

_There’s a chance I’ve said too much, so I’ll stop here. I do hope this helps, though. I very much want him to be happy, and if you’re willing to put in the work to make that happen, I’ll support it - no matter how idiotic you two seem to be when it comes to each other._

_Best, Astoria_

Harry mulls her words over, Vanishing the letter once he’s done with it. An eye for an eye, she said. And… oh.

Oh.

It’s absolutely stupid, but it could work.

He decides to do it. 

Before he can lose the courage, he Floos to the Ministry, heading straight for the Department of Mysteries, and in it, the fountain room.

\--

Part of Draco wondered when Potter would finally show up at his door. The other part of him is surprised to see him here, especially since it’s been a fair bit of time since they’ve spoken.

But one look at Potter’s face is enough to bring back all the anger and frustration and betrayal he’s felt for weeks.

“What are you doing here?” he spits out.

Potter nearly seems like he wants to leave—good riddance, if so—but he ends up standing his ground. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well?” Draco says, making no move to invite him in—and okay, he knows he’s being a bit of a prick, but Potter deserves it.

Potter sighs. “You know what? Never mind. Obviously it’s not a good time.”

Oh. Draco wasn’t expecting that.

Potter turns around and walks away, and he’s almost all the way down the steps up to Draco’s flat before Draco makes up his mind.

“Wait,” he calls, stepping half out of his door.

Potter looks up at him, expression resigned. “What?”

Draco sighs. “Come in,” he says, and then waits there awkwardly for Potter to climb the stairs again.

They sit on Draco’s couch, and Potter is uncharacteristically silent for a moment—he seems nervous, Draco thinks. It’s strange. Usually Potter is all bluster and bravado.

Eventually, Potter sits up, running a hand through his hair. “This is going to be a stupid idea, okay?”

Draco tries not to let on that he’s a bit alarmed. “Okay?”

Slowly, Potter nods. And then he pulls out a vial of a very familiar potion.

“Oh, fuck no,” Draco says immediately, standing up and pulling out his wand.

“No, no, wait—” Potter holds his hands up. “It’s… I was thinking that—that I could take it.”

Draco stares at him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I told you it was stupid,” Potter grumbles. “It’s. I just wanted to… I dunno. To level the playing field some. So you wouldn’t have to feel like—like you were the only one who had to be vulnerable.”

“You’re right. That’s absolutely stupid,” Draco says, and he’s about to tell Potter off again—but then he realizes: why should he care? Potter’s the one who hurt _him_ , after all. He can do whatever he wants to. “You know what? Do it. I don’t care,” Draco says, and turns away.

“Okay,” Potter says.

And then there’s the sound of a vial uncorking.

Merlin. Draco didn’t actually think he’d _do_ it. “Hold on,” he says quickly. “How long of a dose would you be taking?”

“Er,” Potter says, then stares at the vial. “Not sure?”

“For Merlin’s sake—give me that,” Draco mutters, snatching the vial from Potter’s hand and Summoning a cup to measure the potion into. Honestly, he ought to Vanish the damned thing.

But Salazar help him, he’s also feeling morbidly curious as well as the slightest bit vindictive. And Potter offered, didn’t he?

He hands Potter the cup. 

“How long?” Potter asks. 

“Two hours.” Draco doesn’t know what to do with the leftover potion, so he slides it into the pocket of his robes.

“Okay,” Potter says. 

This time he really does drink the potion.

And Draco is left sitting there, wondering what the hell they’re doing right now.

\--

It doesn’t feel any different.

Harry feels briefly nauseous, because fuck, what if he accidentally fucked up the potion or something—then he’d be lying again, lying to Draco—

But slowly, as he sits there for a moment, he starts to see the subtle differences in his emotions. He’s not at all angry right now, even though he’d been a bit miffed at Draco beforehand. He no longer is as worried about what the potion might do to him either.

However, that’s mostly it.

Which can only mean that he’s still far more in love with Draco than he’d ever wanted to be.

Fuck.

“Potter?” Draco says hesitantly, and Merlin, Harry aches to go to him. But Draco doesn’t want that.

So he doesn’t.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Harry says eventually. The feeling of heartbreak in his chest is stronger now, stronger than it’s been in days. He stares down at Draco’s floor and just focuses on breathing.

Draco lets out a sigh. “I ought to just make you go home,” he says, and his voice still sounds bitter.

If Draco’s trying to hurt him… it’s working.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” Harry says anyway, biting his lip. He feels cold all of a sudden.

He hates this.

Draco shakes his head then. “No,” he says eventually. “It’s fine.”

They sit there silently for several moments, and Harry can only wonder what Draco is thinking. Then Draco gets up without a word, heading toward the kitchen, and after several minutes he comes back holding two mugs of tea.

“Here,” Draco says, thrusting one toward Harry so sharply it spills a bit. “Ah, fuck.”

“’S fine,” Harry says, casting a Vanishing spell before Draco can even get to his wand.

“You’re good at those, aren’t you?” Draco asks, his voice mocking, and Harry cringes. “Fuck. Sorry. I suppose that was uncalled for.”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “You’ve every right to be angry.”

“But you’re…” Draco’s lips thin. “It probably hurts more on the Amortentia. It’s uncouth of me.”

Harry shrugs. At this point it feels like he’d do anything to make Draco forgive him.

So they sit there on the sofa, sipping at their tea, as Harry’s heart slowly shreds itself into pieces.

\--

Draco shouldn’t have given him so long of a dose. Two hours with Potter sitting there looking miserable isn’t fucking worth it, not worth the petty revenge that Draco had briefly wanted.

Not worth the way Draco keeps looking over and wanting to hug him.

An hour in, he clears his throat. “What if…?” he starts, and pulls the vial back out of his pocket.

“No,” Potter says. But the word lacks conviction. He looks as if he might cry, his eyes locked on the Amortentia.

“Are you certain?” Draco asks.

Potter tears his gaze away. “It wouldn’t be right,” he says, and Merlin, Draco aches for him.

He toys with the vial. “I could do it anyway.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Potter says finally. “Don’t… don’t tempt me, please, Draco. I don’t want to do that to you again.”

Draco swallows back a sudden tingle of affection for Potter. “Okay,” he says, and Vanishes the vial.

The rest of the hour is spent with the telly on, the one Potter had charmed for Draco even though Draco had outwardly protested its existence. He thinks neither of them are watching whatever programme is on. But it’s better than the silence.

Then suddenly time is up, and Potter stands, looking like he’s more than happy to flee. “I’ll, er. See you?”

Draco takes him in—takes in the sad look in Potter’s eyes, the way his shoulders are all hunched in defeat.

They’re really not good for each other, are they?

He sighs. “Potter,” he says, and then holds out his arms for a hug.

He’s honestly a bit surprised when Potter goes willingly—and Merlin, it feels as nice as Draco remembered, Potter’s body warm and firm and comforting against Draco’s. They hug longer than strictly necessary.

Draco’s the one who first steps away.

“Potter,” he says again. “You should try and forget about me—about all this.”

“Yeah,” Potter says, nodding slowly, his lips twisting. “I really should, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s probably for the best,” Draco says, even though part of him wants to take it back, to just keep holding Potter and forget anything bad ever happened between them.

But life doesn’t work that way.

Minutes later, Potter walks out of Draco’s door, leaving Draco with a vague ache of wonder at what would’ve happened if he stopped him.

\--

Harry doesn't really know how he ended up here, standing in front of Bentley’s a week later with nervousness oozing in his gut.

All he knows is that he’s been frustrated, keyed up all day, annoyed at the fact that he's _still_ only categorizing prophecies at work and just… lonely.

He misses Draco. He misses him so fucking much, even though he’s been _trying_ to forget—because Draco was right, wasn’t he? They’re not so good for each other, especially not with the Amortentia in the mix. His attempt at fixing everything had only left him even more confused and miserable.

So now he’s here in a last ditch effort to distract himself. Maybe all he really needs right now is sex.

Not that he actually thinks that's the case, deep down. It's Draco, it's always been Draco—

But if a good fuck well help him forget for a little while, isn't that okay?

He steels himself and walks through the doors.

It occurs to him as he's walking down the front corridor to the lobby that he actually has no idea how this works. Should he have stopped at Gringotts on his way? Most places do automatic Galleon transfer nowadays, but there are still businesses that haven't yet set up the necessary charms—

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” says the woman at the front desk, interrupting his thoughts. She's the same woman as the first time he’d come, and he opens his mouth to ask how all of this works, but before he can get a word out, she picks up an orb from under the desk and sets it afloat. “Your room is ready for you.”

He blinks at her in shock. He nearly protests, except that there's the faintest thought in the back of his mind that maybe Draco's here, and maybe, just maybe, Draco wants Harry here too…

His chest clenches as he walks up the stairs. More likely than not, Draco had just forgotten to change the permissions for who was allowed in. And at any rate it’s pretty unlikely that Draco's here in the first place, isn't it?

What does that even mean anyway, if Draco _is_ here? That he's over Harry?

That he doesn’t need him anymore—for anything?

That should be a good thing. Draco should be getting over him—for the good of both of them, Harry thinks—but even so the thought of it sends a burning thrum of jealousy through his veins.

He reaches the door, half praying at this point that the rooms beyond it will be dark.

But they’re not.

Fuck.

He wasn't ready for this, was he?

He wasn't ready to walk in and see Draco half naked through the transparent wall, kissing another man.

Harry stumbles over to one of the observation chairs, unable to keep his eyes off of Draco, of the flex of his forearms as he grasps at the other man, dragging him closer as they kiss.

It's unfair. It's so bloody unfair.

Harry nearly leaves. He doesn't want to see it, not at all—he doesn’t want to see Draco touching someone else. 

But for some unfathomable reason, he stays.

He wants to see Draco, even when it’s absolutely tearing him apart. He wants to watch him come apart, wants to see him _happy_ —and maybe this will be fine if he just watches Draco's face and ignores the other man entirely.

Except that wouldn't be right, would it? Just to watch Draco without him knowing? Especially if the room only allowed Harry entrance by mistake.

Harry's body flashes cold as he realizes that if he really wants to do this, he needs to stop hiding.

He needs to let Draco see him too.

Does he want it badly enough? Even though it’s probably more than a bit fucked up—and even knowing Draco might throw him out of the room anyway?

He's not even fully sure, but his hand moves to his wand anyway. 

Fuck it.

His fingers are shaking as he holds up his wand to spell the window transparent. 

\--

Fuck. Potter is here.

Potter is _here_ , staring through the wall at Draco, who is suddenly extremely aware of his partial state of undress.

Sure, okay, maybe he left Potter’s name in the room permissions sort-of-a-little on purpose. But that didn’t mean he thought Potter would _come_.

“You all right, mate?” the man with his hands on Draco says, the first man Draco’s tried to do this with since the last time on Amortentia. Draco’s already forgotten his name. 

He swallows around the lump that’s rapidly forming in his throat. “I’m fine,” he says, and really, he should tell him to keep going, should just completely ignore Potter because Draco doesn’t even know how to feel about him right now, if he’s being honest—no, he should just kick Potter out entirely, because Potter _shouldn’t be here_ —

Except Draco wants him here.

He wants to be near him so much it hurts.

“Listen, mate—I can leave.” The other man’s voice feels intrusive now that Potter’s here, and all of the sudden Draco feels vastly uncomfortable being half-naked with another man in front of him. 

He sighs. “Fine,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to Potter again. “Leave.”

The man does leave then, without another look back, and then Draco is left staring at Potter through the glass.

“Well?” Draco says, a wave of exhaustion coming over him. 

He’s going to let this happen, isn’t he? 

He’s just… so tired. Tired of holding back, he supposes.

Tired of feeling alone.

He takes a breath and hates that he almost feels hopeful right now. “Are you going to come in or not?”

“Oh, I—yes, okay,” Potter says, looking surprised as Draco is. His face goes all flushed then, as he turns and briefly disappears into the hallway, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Draco thinks that his obvious embarrassment is endearing.

Potter’s endearing. Bloody hell.

And then Potter walks into the room, all muscular and unfairly attractive and smelling like warm, blissful nights spent cuddling on the couch—fuck, Draco hates this. Hates _him_.

He especially hates the way Potter goes to him immediately, eyes wide, and pulls Draco into his arms—hates how comforting it feels to press his face into Potter’s neck, hates how he never wants it to end, and Merlin, this shouldn’t be _happening_ , he shouldn’t _feel_ like this—

Draco lifts his head. “Are you going to fuck me or not?” he asks, his voice coming out coated in rust. “I don’t have all night.”

“Oh,” Potter says, looking at him, seeming just the slightest bit unsteady. “…Yeah. Okay.” 

For a moment Draco wonders if they should stop, if they should actually try to talk this out.

But then Potter kisses him, crowding him backwards until Draco’s knees hit the bed, biting at his lip until Draco’s gasping with want, and he forgets that thought entirely.

Merlin, it shouldn’t _be_ like this, not off the potion. Draco shouldn’t be groaning out Potter’s name as Potter drops to the ground and starts to suck him off, shouldn’t be running his hands through Potter’s hair, knocking his glasses askew.

He shouldn’t be lying back on the bed, spreading his legs for Potter, letting him press nimble fingers slick inside him, aching for him.

He shouldn’t be feeling like he wants to cry as Potter climbs on top of him, as Potter gently thrusts in, holding Draco through the burn.

This shouldn’t make him feel whole again.

But it does.

“Harder, damnit,” he mutters, grabbing at Potter’s hips, trying to stave off the emotions overflowing in his chest. But Potter just shakes his head, and Draco has to look away from him then because Potter’s expression is so _earnest_ and Draco—Draco can’t.

He can’t do this. 

He can’t fucking fall in _love_ with him.

Potter’s a liar. He has to remember that.

But Potter keeps making love to him as if it’s the last time they’ll ever touch, rocking into him tenderly, over and over, kissing him all soft as if Draco really _is_ someone he wants, just like when he was pretending to love him for fuck knows what reasons—

“Shh,” Potter says quietly. “Don’t think too much.”

“I hate you,” Draco says, squeezing his eyes shut and tugging Potter closer all the same.

“Fuck,” Potter mumbles, adjusting his position as he presses inside him, again and again, and then—“Yeah. I know.”

Then Potter kisses him and Draco reaches between them to palm his own cock and he’s lost, lost in Potter’s touch and mouth and the feeling of being filled by him.

“Just let go,” Potter mumbles against his jaw, and Draco can’t help it—a few messy strokes later he comes, breath going all ragged as he clenches on Potter’s cock. He’s rewarded moments later when Potter’s expression goes slack and he too comes, face pressed to Draco’s shoulder, warm and familiar and—

And fuck. 

Draco can’t do this again.

He can’t bear the idea of actually falling for him—it would be too much, too much history, too much hurt. 

Too much pride, Astoria might say. But then again, she also left him, so why should he give a fuck what she thinks?

Because usually she’s right, he thinks, deep in the back of his mind. 

But he pushes that away.

By the time Potter rolls off of him and starts to get dressed, Draco feels his own face go blank. “Listen, Potter? This is the last time. Don’t come back.”

Potter stops, his shirt halfway on. “Draco, wait—”

“Just don’t, okay? _Don’t_. I don’t want to see you again,” Draco grits out, wrapping the blanket around him, staring at the wall.

Even so, he can see it in his periphery when Potter’s shoulders slumps. Fuck.

“Can’t we just talk—”

“No, we fucking can’t,” Draco interrupts him. “This was a mistake. That’s all.”

He can’t bear making himself vulnerable to Potter. Not again.

Potter makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. But then he goes quiet and finishes dressing without another word.

And he leaves.

A month passes.

\--

It was inevitable, wasn’t it?

Harry stands in the main chamber of the department for their final rotation assignment, mind whirling as he stares at Adams, still unable to quite comprehend what’s just happened.

Really, should have expected this. His luck is always shit, after all. Part of him wants to object, or scream, or punch something, anything to put a stop to the sudden panic churning in his gut—but instead he simply turns away.

Toward the Love department, where he’s just been assigned to work with Draco. Again.

Toward what will most definitely be the most miserable two months of his already spectacularly miserable life.

He feels like he’s in a daze as he enters the fountain room, excruciatingly aware of the fact that Draco’s two steps behind him—and as soon as he takes a breath in he wants to leave, because the entire fucking room smells just like Draco, the fucking _Amortentia_ —

“Potter, calm down,” Draco mutters quietly beside him, making him jump. “I’m going to ask for a reassignment.”

Harry grits his teeth and shakes his head. He’s looked Death in the fucking face—certainly he can deal with sharing a department with his ex-whatever, even if he did sleep with him barely a month ago. 

Even if he cried about it afterward where Draco couldn’t see, cried because he loved Draco just as much off the Amortentia as he did when he was on it, cried because for just the briefest moment, he thought Draco wanted him too. 

But it’s… it’s fine. They’ll probably be put on different departmental assignments anyway. It’ll be _fine_ , and at any rate, both of them are going to be working in Mysteries for the foreseeable future.

It’s like pulling a band-aid off. Or something.

Unfortunately at the moment it doesn’t _feel_ fine. He hates that part of him still feels warm when he hears Draco’s voice—he hates even more that Draco can tell how nervous he is, hates that he _likes_ that Draco is maybe just the tiniest bit worried about him.

He hates that he still wants him to care.

Fuck, he hates this. All of this.

“Helloooo!” says a voice far too bright and cheerful for the moment, and Harry looks up to see a pleasant-looking woman with long, straight hair and a clipboard striding up to them. “Ah, Unspeakables Potter and Malfoy! I’m Unspeakable Zeller, and I’m so excited to work with you!”

Harry forces on a smile and reaches out to shake her hand. Then he catches sight of Draco’s expression as he does the same—and is surprised to nearly laugh aloud at the obvious discomfort in Draco’s face.

They share a look, and Draco makes a face when Zeller isn’t watching, making Harry want to laugh again and setting his heart pounding all at once.

Zeller turns and starts to lead “You know, we’ve _never_ had two Unspeakables in the department who have taken the Amortentia together—this is a first for us! That means we have a lot we can learn about its effects…”

The Amortentia. Fuck. They know. They _know_.

Zeller keeps chattering on, seemingly completely oblivious to the looks of abject horror that both of them are aiming about her.

How does she _know?_

“ _Did you tell?_ ” Draco mouths at him, expression stern, and Harry shakes his head sharply. Of _course_ not.

“Welp, here we are!” Zeller guides them into a small meeting room, a large table dominating the space and comfortable-looking office chairs surrounding it. The window charms are set to be pleasantly sunny, and overall Harry would be excited to work here if only he wasn’t so bloody concerned right now. “You can take these,” she continues, handing Harry the clipboard. “Both of you, please fill out these surveys as thoroughly as possible, one for every instance the Amortentia was taken—feel free to take as long as you need, and let me know when you’re done!”

Then, as quick and fleeting as a Snitch, she darts out of the room, closing the door behind her. She has no idea what she’s done, does she?

“What is it?” Draco asks, standing far too close as he leans in to attempt to look at the clipboard. Harry turns away to hide it from him, already annoyed as he skims the first few questions.

 _1) Rate the experience of using or having your partner use Amortentia, with 10 being the highest rating, and then describe why you chose to rate it as such_.

_2) Ask your partner to rate the experience. If your ratings differ, discuss why, then describe below._

_3) How did you and/or your partner feel during the first few minutes the potion took effect?_

His stomach sinks. He flips through the next couple pages, discovering in horror that each survey seems to be several pages long, all filled with words like _side-effects_ and _intimacy_ and _love_.

He shoves it toward Draco. “Take it,” he mutters. “I don’t want it.”

There’s silence while Draco reads. Then he swears. “Fuck.”

“Did they catch you?” Harry asks him then, anger swelling in his chest. “Stealing from the fountain, I mean?”

“No, of course not,” Draco says, his own voice clipped as he tosses the clipboard none too gently onto the table. “I am very discreet, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Harry mutters. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“ _You_ can get this over with,” Draco says snidely. “You only took the potion, what, three times? _I_ have to fill it out for every damn time.”

“I’m _sorry!_ ” Harry shouts.

Draco simply stares at him, expression cold.

“Look. I’m sorry. I fucked up,” Harry says, quieter now, pulling out a chair and slumping into it. “I should have told you, or said something, or—just. I’m sorry.”

Draco slowly shakes his head. But still, his voice has less bite in it when he speaks. “How am I supposed to forgive you?”

Harry looks down at the table, feeling miserable. “I don’t know. But—” He looks up at Draco. “But I do know that the next two months are going to be fucking awful if we can’t stop going off on each other.”

“Do I look like I care?” Draco says, scowling. But he takes a seat across from Harry anyway, crossing his arms. “Whatever. Let’s just do these forms.”

\--

The universe actually hates him.

That has to be the reason Draco’s sitting here, less than a foot away from Potter, filling out bloody paperwork about what were both the worst and best experiences of his life.

“Oh, come on,” Potter says, looking offended as he stares down at Draco’s paper. “You rated it a four? Really?”

“If you don’t recall, at the time I was devastated about the end of my marriage,” Draco retorts with a scowl. “So excuse me if I didn’t have the time of my life in your oh-so-loving arms.”

Potter goes silent for a moment. Surprised to not hear some sort of annoyed backtalk, Draco glances over at Potter’s paper. Potter sees him looking and tries to cover what he’s written, but it’s too late—for the second time Potter was on Amortentia, he’s written a nine.

Draco squints at him. “What the fuck, Potter?” They’ve been skipping all the partnered questions, opting to work on their surveys in silence. But Draco can’t help it—he’s curious.

Potter shrugs lamely. “It’s just a survey.”

“Fucking hypocrite,” Draco mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “If you bloody _liked_ it, why did you stop taking the fucking potion?”

“I didn’t like the potion,” Potter shoots back. “I hated the potion, actually. I hate when stuff fucks with my head.”

“You liked it enough to take it again later,” Draco can’t help saying.

“You’re such a fucking _arsehole!_ ” Potter bangs his hand down on the table. “That was for _you_.”

Draco sighs. Fuck. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Whatever,” Potter says, looking back down at his stack of paperwork.

But Draco can’t let it go just yet. “I just want to know… why?” He gestures at Potter’s answer. “Why that rating?”

Potter looks away.

“What?” Draco asks.

“I hated the potion,” Potter says quietly. “But I liked being with you.”

Oh.

Draco feels like his heart has stopped for a moment.

It’s the first time since—since everything, really, that Potter’s actually said that out loud.

Draco doesn’t know why it surprises him so much. He supposes something in the back of his mind had told him that it was just because Potter was horny or lonely or some combination of the two. He’d gone into a mode of self-preservation without a second thought.

He’s not good at letting people in, Mother always said. Even as a child. He thought he’d let Astoria in, felt good about it even, but it seems he didn’t do such a good job of that either. And now there’s Potter…

They’re not very good for each other.

But fuck, does Draco want him anyway.

He _wants_ to be able to let him in.

“What are you thinking?” Potter asks quietly, sounding as if he’s afraid to hear the answer.

“I don’t know what to think,” Draco responds truthfully. “I’m still angry at you.”

“Same here,” Potter says, his mouth twisting. “It’s hard not to—to blow up at you.”

“Agreed,” Draco says, crossing his arms around himself. “I don’t dislike you,” he admits finally, heart fluttering as he looks up at Potter. “But I don’t trust you either.”

Potter nods. “I assumed as much,” he says. “But I don’t know how to fix it.”

Neither does Draco.

They sit there for an uneasy moment, long enough that Draco nearly starts working on the forms again, just for something to do with himself.

Except then Potter gets up, heading toward the door. “I’ll be back in a second,” he says, leaving Draco blinking as the door shuts behind him.

When Potter comes back, he’s holding a vial of potion, and Draco instinctively flinches, staring at him in horror. “Potter, what—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Potter interjects. “It’s not Amortentia, I promise.”

Only then does Draco look closer, enough to see that the liquid inside is clear. 

Oh. Veritaserum then, from the Unspeakable stores of it. 

“I’m still not going to take that,” Draco grumbles, recoiling. Merlin, that would almost be _worse_.

“Not for you,” Potter tells him, and then before Draco can object, Potter takes the vial and tips a few drops into his own mouth.

Oh.

Draco stares at him. “Potter—you didn’t need to—”

“’S fine,” Potter says, shrugging as he stoppers the vial. “I just didn’t think I could say what I wanted to say without it.”

Draco frowns at him. “You’re mad.” It’s not fucking worth it, not to Draco.

“I don’t want to lie to you again,” Potter tells him firmly. “I do want you to trust me, you know.” 

“Potter…” Draco feels a bit like he’s in shock. “You don’t have to do this. It…” _It won’t help_ , is what he wanted to say. But he’s slowly realizing that to some extent, it _is_ helping, because Potter—Potter is in some ways more vulnerable now than Draco ever was on the Amortentia. “You don’t have to,” he says again.

“I want to,” Potter says. Then he makes a face. “I hate this. I’m probably about to say things that I—” He closes his eyes. “Fuck. That I don’t want you to know. But… I want you to know the truth.”

“Fine,” says Draco, eyes flicking over Potter’s expression—he looks scared.

Worse, Draco realizes, is that he’s scared too.

But more than anything, he wants to know what Potter’s going to say. Even if it might hurt.

“Then tell me,” Draco says finally, twisting his hands in his lap. “Tell me why you kept lying about the Amortentia.”

“Okay,” Potter says. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, he looks subdued. “In the beginning… well, I suppose I didn’t want to turn you down. I’m bad at saying no when people… when people need help.”

Draco grimaces. “You really do have a Savior complex.”

Potter aims a glare at him. “Okay, yeah, a bit, but.” He shrugs helplessly. “Anyway, I didn’t want to say no to you, but I also really didn’t want to take the potion, so I just… didn’t.”

“But you kept doing it,” Draco says, his lips thinning. “You could’ve stopped.”

“I liked it,” Potter says, and his cheeks go red. “I—fuck. I liked it. I liked being with someone—I’ve been a bit lonely since I was with my ex, see, and… it was just nice.” He covers his face with his hands. “Merlin.”

“So it wasn’t because it was me,” Draco says, trying to pretend his heart isn’t sinking. It’s just what he thought—Potter just wanted someone to fill his bed with, didn’t he?

Not that Draco wasn’t doing the same thing. In essence he was just lonely too—he needed that connection to bear his breakup with Astoria. 

But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to hear Potter say it.

“Not at first,” Potter says, and Draco stares up at him.

What?

“Not… at first?” Draco repeats, feeling nervous.

“At first I still wasn’t sure,” Potter says. “But later I really… well. I liked being with _you_.” He’s not quite meeting his eyes. “I said that before—and I meant it. It wasn’t just the sex.”

Draco goes so lightheaded he thinks he might faint. But that can’t be—right? “It’s just because I was on the potion,” he says, scrambling for some sort of explanation. “You kept coming back because I thought I was infatuated you—you liked that version of me, but that’s not—that’s not really how I am—you _hate_ me.”

“No, I…” Potter sighs. “I don’t hate you. I haven’t for a while. And anyway, even on the potion you were still _you_. It’s… it’s just like when we were Trainees, you know?”

“Oh,” Draco says, because Merlin, he’d nearly forgotten. He all but erased it from his memory, the long nights spent both studying and chattering—the fact that back then, he and Potter were almost friends. 

He didn’t know it was Potter back then, of course. 

But it was indeed real.

“I’d forgotten,” Draco admits, biting his lip.

“I couldn’t forget,” Harry says, his face going just a bit red. “Even back then I—fuck, I hate Veritaserum—even back then… I was attracted to you. I just didn’t know it was _you_.”

 _Oh_. “So it wasn’t—” Draco starts, then stops himself. Fuck, he shouldn’t ask—he’s scared to ask, honestly, and if he asks now he can’t take it back. And Potter will have to tell him the truth.

But he doesn’t think he can go any longer without knowing for sure.

There’s a lump in Draco’s throat. He swallows around it. “So it wasn’t all a lie?”

“No,” Potter says firmly. “The only thing I really lied about was drinking the Amortentia.”

“And… after,” Draco continues, his heart pounding. “After you stopped taking the potion, when you said you loved me… that wasn’t a lie either?”

“Ah,” Potter says, a small, painful smile on his face. “Only the first time.”

“You…” Draco’s throat tightens, and all of a sudden he feels an intense sense of remorse—he really hadn’t trusted Potter, had he? “You knew that I didn’t—you knew it was just the potion making me feel that way about you. But you… kept letting it happen anyway?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Potter shrugs. “I got too attached. I was an idiot, I suppose.”

“You really were,” Draco mutters, looking away. His emotions are in a wretched turmoil, spinning themselves around in his chest until he’s faintly queasy. 

Potter was in _love_ with him.

Is he… is he still?

Draco looks back up at Potter, so nervous he almost feels panicked. “We had sex. That one time at the club… What was that?”

“A mistake,” Potter says, and Draco winces. “God. Sorry. I just… I just wanted to see you. Even if…” He runs his finger over a mark on the table. “Even if it was the last time.”

Draco doesn’t want it to be the last time.

He doesn’t want Potter to walk away from him again. 

_Fuck_.

He takes a breath. “Are you still…?”

“Hmm?” Potter says, and Merlin, he’s going to make him say it, isn’t he?

Draco looks away. “Are you still in love with me?”

Potter’s silent for a moment, as if he’s wrestling with his words, trying not to let them out. But then he sighs and nods. “Yeah. I am.”

It feels like everything else in the room falls away. 

Potter… loves him. Potter’s been in love with him for—for what, months?

He never even let himself _hope_ for that, he was so terrified.

“Fuck,” he sighs, feeling like he’s been hit by a Bludger. “I’ve been awful to you.”

“It’s okay,” Potter says, a small, sad smile on his mouth. “I might’ve done the same if I were in your shoes—we’re very good at fighting.”

Slowly, Draco shakes his head. “I…” he starts, then stops.

Fuck. He can’t do this, he _can’t_.

But then his eyes land on the vial of Veritaserum.

He swore after the last time taking the Amortentia that he wasn’t ever going to depend on a potion again. But he wants to know the truth, and more than that—he owes it to Potter.

He reaches over and takes the vial, and then despite the wide-eyed look Potter gives him, he tips it toward his mouth. 

Two drops is all it takes.

“Wait—you don’t have to do that,” Potter says in alarm. “It’s fine, Draco, don’t—fuck…”

“I owe you the truth,” Draco says, anxiety nipping at his brain as the potion kicks in. His hands are shaking.

“Draco… oh, Draco,” Potter says, and the next moment Potter is circling the table, sitting next to him, pulling him into a hug, and _God_ , he missed this so fucking _much_.

“Okay, Potter says, pressing the words into his temple. “You can tell me things, but… but only if you really want to.”

“I do,” Draco tells him. He thinks his hands are shaking. 

This is more terrifying than the Amortentia ever was.

The potion is urging him to say things, even with his thoughts all jumbled, and oh, he _loathes_ this. But Potter did it for him. He can do the same for Potter. 

He sighs, heart twisting in his chest. “I missed you so damned much.” 

The words have barely come out before he slaps a hand over his mouth. He hadn’t expected something like that to come out so _fast_ —

But Potter is looking at him in wonder. “You did?”

“Yes,” Draco says—the potion won’t let him lie, even though he’s currently hating himself for it. “Every time you were gone, I missed you.”

“I never believed you when you said that,” Potter admits. “Even though—even though I missed you too.”

Draco’s heart jumps. 

He wrestles with his pride for a moment. But his longing for Potter wins over. “I hated the Amortentia too,” he admits to Potter “I never really wanted the potion—I just wanted to be around you.” 

Then he stares at the table in horror. What is he _doing?_

“Fuck, this is hard,” he mumbles, looking away.

Potter pulls him close again, and Draco lets himself relax into his touch for just a moment. “You can always stop,” Potter says.

“No, it’s fine. I…” Draco pushes Potter away again. “I need this. I’m shit at verbalizing my feelings.”

“I’d gathered,” Potter says drily, and Draco grimaces a bit, thinking of all the times he’d snapped at Potter instead of letting him in.

“Sorry,” Draco says, and means it.

“I forgive you,” Potter tells him, making Draco’s heart swell.

Fuck. He’s in this, isn’t he? “I did like you,” he admits. “A lot.”

“Oh,” Potter says, a look of honest surprise on his face. “I… oh. You… did?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and has to look away. “Maybe I didn’t admit it to myself all the time, but you’re…” He sighs. “There’s no one else like you.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Draco tells him, “Not at all.”

Potter nods. Then he looks away. “I’m scared to ask.”

“Hmm?”

“How…” Potter takes a breath. “How do you feel now? About me?”

Draco feels panicked for a brief moment.

He’s never even thought the words to himself—he needs time, he doesn’t _know_ —

But he’s made the unfortunate mistake of forgetting that he’s on Veritaserum.

“I love you—fuck,” Draco swears, eyes widening in shock. “Fuck. I didn’t know—holy _fuck_ , I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Potter says, leaning forward, “It’s okay.”

He loves him.

He fucking _loves_ him.

Draco wants to punch something. But this time it’s not Potter. “I’m so _stupid_. How could I not have noticed—how did I miss falling in love with you?”

“It’s not hard,” Potter says, a small smile on his face. “I nearly missed it too.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Draco says again, pressing the words into Potter’s shoulder because he’s _hurt_ Potter—he _knows_ he has, all because of his stupid pride, and it’s so idiotic because this entire month he’s missed Potter so much he could barely breathe. How did he not _know?_

“It’s fine,” Potter is saying, gently rubbing his back. “You’re okay, Draco.”

Draco’s not expecting to reach up and find that his eyes are wet. “I’m an idiot.”

“Yes,” Potter says, knocking his forehead against Draco’s temple. “But so am I.”

They sit there, just sit there, Potter holding him while tears leak stubbornly from Draco’s eyes. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Potter says, tightening his arms around him. 

“It’s undignified.”

“You don’t have to be dignified all the time.”

“I do,” Draco insists. “It’s the Malfoy way.”

“You don’t seem so dignified when we’re fucking.”

Draco sucks in a breath. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes,” Potter says, and then he leans in and kisses him.

Oh. _Oh_. 

He’s missed this.

Draco sighs into Potter’s mouth, feeling heady and warm—and suddenly it occurs to him that this could actually end up okay.

“I love you,” Potter tells him again, the words a mere whisper. “I have for a while.”

Draco leans into him, feeling a strange mixture of happiness and embarrassment and worry—but stronger than anything, love. “I think I might have too.”

\--

They sit in each other’s arms long after the Veritaserum has worn off. Harry nearly can’t believe it—that he’s sitting here now, with Draco next to him, touching him.

Loving him.

Finally, Draco slowly sits up. “I suppose we should get back to work,” he says, then makes a face.

Merlin. Harry nearly forgot they were still in the Department of Mysteries. “Suppose so,” he agrees, reaching for the nearest survey. 

“I’m not…” Draco bites his lip, struggling with his words. Harry understands. It was easier on the Veritaserum. “I’m not the easiest to love.”

Harry snorts at that. “I know that, believe me.”

“No, just—listen,” Draco says. “I’m an arsehole sometimes. A lot of times, honestly. I don’t like to talk about my feelings, and I’m not really… I don’t like myself very much either. So. I want you to think about it, really think about it. If you want to be with me, I mean.”

“Of course I—”

“No,” Draco cuts him off. “Don’t answer now. In a few days, maybe.”

Harry frowns at him. “I am in love with you. With _you_. Even if you’re a brat sometimes.”

“Potter, please,” Draco says, but Harry shakes his head.

“I’ve thought about it a lot. Even when I was angry with you, or sad that you left…” He swallows thickly. “I still couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because I want to _really_ know you. Everything about you. And I… I want to be there for you.”

“You might not like it,” Draco says nervously.

“I won’t know that until it happens, right?” Harry tells him.

“But—”

“Draco,” Harry says, and Draco stills. “Let me love you, okay?”

Draco’s face goes through several expressions, finally landing on one that nearly looks hopeful. “You’re a stubborn arse,” he says anyway.

“Does that mean yes?”

Draco leans into him for just a moment longer. “I’m not promising anything,” he says finally. “But… I’ll try.”

\--

EPILOGUE

“Good morning,” Draco says, waving his hand at Zeller as he passes by her desk. She gives him a cheery smile in return, and he attempts to walk away before she can strike up a conversation—he’s grown fonder of her over the year he’s been in the department, but she still annoys the hell out of him sometimes.

It doesn’t quite work. 

“Late night? You look tired,” she comments from behind him.

“I decline to answer that,” he says, not looking back, and she laughs, thankfully letting him off the hook.

He heads to his desk and discreetly checks to make sure the Glamour Charm on the hickey on his neck is still in place—it’s fine, thank Merlin, though he’ll have to keep an eye on it. He leans back in his chair, glancing around the office.

The desk beside him is still empty, of course. Potter tends to run a bit late in the mornings. It typically takes him a long while to get out of bed—especially after a night like last night.

Their anniversary.

Somehow, they’ve made it an entire year in their weird, sometimes dysfunctional relationship, one where they quarrel at least half as often as they fuck. Draco sometimes still wonders what the hell he’s doing dating Potter, of all people, especially when he’s angry with him.

But then there are nights like last night, where Potter is all sparkling eyes and warm looks as his eyes trace over Draco’s body, and fuck—

They hadn’t even made it to the bed. 

The first time, that is.

“I adore you,” he’d said to Potter, in a moment of weakness as they were finally drifting off to sleep.

“You can say you love me, you know,” Potter said with a chuckle.

“Fuck off,” Draco muttered. “But… I do love you, okay?”

“I know. I love you.”

Draco still feels embarrassingly warm just thinking about it.

“Morning,” says Potter’s voice from behind him, jolting him out of his daydream. Draco turns, hoping his face isn’t red, to see Potter sliding into the desk adjacent to his own with a cheeky expression on his face. 

Draco resists the urge to check his Glamour again. “Not a word,” he grumbles. “We have work to do.” 

They’ve made a lot of progress since their first day working here. Draco’s following the leads on a sudden breakthrough he made with Astoria’s blood curse—it makes sense retrospectively, that it would all be tied to a jilted lover, doesn’t it? And Potter’s attempting to study familial love as an homage to his parents—the kind of love that kept him alive through the Killing Curse. 

More often than not, they’re happy here.

“I know, I know,” Potter says. “Prick.”

“Wanker.”

“Not last night,” Potter says, and winks.

“Oh, shut it,” Draco mutters, reaching over to shove him, a flush high on his cheeks.

“I’ll tell Astoria you’re being a git again.”

Draco glares daggers at him. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Potter just laughs.

Astoria’s still in France, though not at the retreat she started at—she found a partner there months ago, someone she’s actually in love with, and they’ve since moved in together. The four of them go out for dinner sometimes, which Draco thought would feel far stranger than it actually does.

It makes Draco think that maybe the end of their marriage wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He’s always wanted her happiness, after all.

In turn, he has Potter, who takes turns making tea with him and cuddles up to him on the couch even when he’s grumpy, who won’t allow him to work after hours even if Draco wants to.

Who Draco catches sometimes looking at him with such warmth that he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

Like last night.

Today is going to be difficult to get through, isn’t it? The memories of their night are too fresh in his mind, and he keeps getting distracted, thinking of Potter’s hands, his touch. He wonders if perhaps Potter wouldn’t mind taking a quick trip home on their lunch break…

But that’s a question for later. For now, he should at least try and focus.

If he looks out the open door to their office suite, he can just barely make out the outline of the glittering Amortentia fountain. He knows now that the magical signature of anyone who takes it is immediately recorded upon ingestion—it’s necessary, after all, for such a dangerous potion to be well supervised. He’s surprised that they hadn’t gotten in trouble for taking it so often, though he supposes that what Adams said at the beginning is certainly true—the Unspeakables are a greedy lot, taking any chance they can get to further their research.

But it’s okay, he thinks, glancing over at Potter with warmth in his cheeks. 

He doesn’t need it anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> The dubious consent warning for this fic stems from both sex under the influence of love potions as well as misconceptions about whether a character is under the influence of one or not.
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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